“That blankety-blank old bull must have started a stampede!” gasped Douglas.  “I wouldn’t have thought Scott would have left him free in here!”

He rode through and around the corral.  Cattle tracks led in every direction.  He trotted in widening circles.  Perhaps a mile north of the corral, he pulled up and looked closely at the ground.  Single cattle tracks here converged and a herd track led on northward.  As he stared at it, the bull came thundering down the trail.  Doug put the Moose after him but had not followed him for five minutes when Scott broke into the chase from the right.

“What do you think you’ve done, blank you?” he shouted.  “What have you done with the rest of the herd?”

“Done with the herd?” roared Douglas.  “What are you talking about?”

“I know you, you dogy rider, you!  I told you that wild horse of yours would gum the game.  There ain’t a steer left!  What do you mean by riding him into the corral?”

“You’re drunk!” retorted Douglas.  “You’d better ride after that bull or Charleton will pull a gun on you.”

“Ride after nothing!  Chase him yourself!”

“On second thoughts, I think I will.  It’s your turn to play nurse.  Go on back and tell Charleton what’s happened.”

“Don’t get fresh, young fellow!” snarled Scott.

Douglas pushed back his hat and the noon sun glimmered through the pines on his yellow hair.  His clear blue eyes studied Scott appraisingly.  Finally, he said, “I guess, on third thoughts, I’ll take you back to Charleton.”

Scott laughed.  “Now you’re drunk!”

Douglas’ six-shooter appeared casually between the Moose’s twitching ears.  “Hold up your little brown hands, Scott, till I reach me your gun.  Fine!  Now ride ahead of me till we reach Charleton.  Some boy I am on the draw, eh, old-timer?”

Scott swore, but rode ahead at a steady trot until they reached the noonday camp.  Charleton looked at them in astonishment.

“Call this damn fool off my back, will you, Charleton?” drawled Scott.  “He’s mad because I called him for letting that wild cayuse of his stampede the herd.”

“He’s a liar!  This is as good a cow-pony as he ever rode and better.  Ain’t a better horse in Lost Chief than this same Moose.  He was after the bull like a hound after a coyote when Scott broke in on us, the dirty—­”

“Hold on,” interrupted Charleton, “What’s your story, Scott?”

“The corral is broke in forty places and all the stock gone.  I suppose this fool rode his wild horse into the herd and stampeded it.  I found him running the bull like he and his horse was both loco.”

Douglas uttered an oath.  “Nothing of the kind!  When I got there, the herd was gone and I’d just picked up the trail when the bull came along.”

Charleton looked from one young man to the other.  Doug with his long face entirely expressionless, sitting easily sidewise in his saddle; Scott, face flushed, eyes angry, standing tense in the stirrups.  There came an ugly twist to Charleton’s lips, but after a moment he spoke coolly.