Scott lay down reluctantly.  Doug shrugged his broad shoulders, and shortly, head in his saddle, feet to the fire, he was fast asleep.

The trees were black against gray light when Charleton called the two young riders.

“Let’s eat and be off,” he said briefly.

Breakfast was a short affair of bread, bacon and coffee.  While they were bolting it, Charleton outlined the campaign.

“You’ll see Nelson’s cattle have been all through here.  No one else grazes hereabouts.  Don’t rope any cows with calves following ’em.  They make too much bellowing.  Get what steers you can by mid-morning into the old corral.  There isn’t one chance in a thousand we’ll meet any one.  Nelson’s making hay five miles below here.  But if any one should come along when you’ve roped a steer, get him to examine the brand for you, and of course if the brand isn’t yours, let the critter go.”

“Where is the old corral from here?” asked Scott.

“Show him, Doug,” ordered Charleton.

The camp had been made just within the tree line below the peak.  Above, against the glowing pink of the heavens, was etched the suave line of the peak and topping this a heap of rocks, surmounted by a staff.  West of the staff and below it projected the top of a dead spruce on which sat an eagle.  To this Douglas pointed.

“Down the mountain on a line with the staff and the dead spruce in a thick clump of young aspen, about an acre of it.  The old corral is there.”

Scott nodded.  They broke camp at once and trotted off, each one for himself.  The Moose was not yet a cow-pony, but, from Doug’s viewpoint at least, he was now quite manageable.  Any one in Lost Chief could rope a steer from a well-trained horse.  Douglas proposed to repay Scott’s sneer by bringing in on his half-broken mount as many animals as either of his companions on their seasoned cow-ponies.  And although Doug risked his life a hundred times, four of the dozen fat steers that were milling about in the old corral by nine o’clock had been dragged in by the snorting, trembling Moose.

When Doug closed the bars on his fourth steer, he waited for a short time for Charleton and Scott, but as neither appeared, he set off after another brute.  He had ridden a good mile from the corral when he heard the bellow of a bull and a shout from Charleton.  He spurred the Moose in the direction of the cry.  Democrat was standing with the reins over his head.  Under a giant pine close by, Charleton was clinging desperately to the horns of a red bull.  Blood was running over the back of his gray shirt.  The bull was stamping in a circle in the vain attempt to trample his victim.

“Don’t shoot!” gasped Charleton.  “Rope his hind legs and throw him!  By God, I’ll keep him now!”

Twice Doug’s lariat darted through the air before the loop caught.  But the third attempt was successful and he raced the half-maddened Moose away and jerked the bull off his feet.  Charleton rolled to his own lariat lying on the ground near Democrat.  He grasped the rope, rose to his knees and twirled it.  It twisted about the bull’s mighty neck.  Charleton sank back to a sitting position and pulled the rope taut.