“You trot right into the house and stay there,” said Uncle Frank.

Little Jim cast an appealing glance at Cheyenne and walked slowly toward the house, incidentally and unconsciously rubbing his hand across his jeans with a sort of anticipatory movement.  He bit his lip, and the tears started to his eyes.  But he shook them away, wondering what he might do to avert the coming storm.  Perhaps his father would interpose between him and the dreaded harness strap.  Yet Jimmy knew that his father had never interfered when a question of discipline arose.

Suddenly Little Jim’s face brightened.  He marched through the house to the wash bench, and, unsolicited, washed his hands and face and soaped his hair, after which he slicked it down carefully, so that there might be no mistake about his having brushed and combed it.  He rather hoped that Uncle Frank or Aunt Jane would come in just then and find him at this unaccustomed task.  It might help.

Meanwhile, Cheyenne and his brother-in-law had a talk, outside.  Dorothy and Aunt Jane retired to the veranda, talking in low tones.  Presently Little Jim, who could stand the strain no longer,—­the jury seemed a long time at arriving at a verdict,—­appeared on the front veranda, hatless, washed, and his hair fearfully and wonderfully brushed and combed.

“Why, Jimmy!” exclaimed Dorothy.

Jimmy fidgeted and glanced away bashfully.  Presently he stole to his Aunt Jane’s side.

“Am I goin’ to get a lickin’?” he queried.

Aunt Jane shook her head, and patted his hand.  Entrenched beside Aunt Jane, Jimmy watched his father and Uncle Frank as they talked by the big corral.  Uncle Frank was gesturing toward the mountains.  Cheyenne was arguing quietly.

“It ain’t just the runnin’ off of Sneed’s hosses,” said Uncle Frank.  “That’s bad enough.  But I told Jimmy to keep away from Sneed’s.”

“So did I,” declared Cheyenne.  “And seein’ as I’m his dad, it’s up to me to lick him if he’s goin’ to get licked.”

“Sneed is like to ride down some night and set fire to the barns,” asserted Uncle Frank.

“Sneed don’t know yet who run off his stock.  And he can’t say that I did, and prove it.  Now, Frank, you just hold your hosses.  I’ll ride over to camp and get my outfit together and come over here.  Then we’ll throw Steve Brown’s hosses into your pasture, and I’ll see that Sneed’s stock is out of here, pronto.”

“That’s all right.  But Sneed will trail his stock down here.”

“But he won’t find ’em here.  And he’ll never know they was in your corral.”

Uncle Frank shook his head doubtfully.  He was a pessimist and always argued the worst of a possible situation.

“And before I’ll see Jimmy take a lickin’—­this trip—­I’ll ride back and shoot it out with Sneed and his outfit,” stated Cheyenne.

“I reckon you’re fool enough to do it,” said Uncle Frank.