“Well,” resumed Buck, “one noon, in th’ foothills, we come on what we was after, an’ we did some stalkin’ t’ do it.  We ketched three guys red-handed.  They was artistic-like re-brandin’ some of our calves so’s Lazy I’d read Circle W.  ‘Course, they wa’n’t but one thing t’ do with them fellers, an’ we perceeds to do it.  But unfortunate enough they wa’n’t a tree within miles of that there spot.  It’d seem as though nature hadn’t figured on no rus’lers conductin’ bizness there, an’ gettin’ caught.

“We felt purty bad about that, an’ knowin’ those fellers as we did made us feel worse.  They sure didn’t deserve shootin’.  Then Lem Fisher, who always was handy with his memory, happens t’ think of a canyon ’bout three mile away, with a bridge over it.  Sort o’ like that place at the water tank, where them boys was strung up this mornin’, only deeper, an’ th’ stream under it swifter an’ rockier.

“Well, we conducts our three friends to this here canyon.  They draw lots t’ see who goes first, an’ a feller named Red Mike wins—–­ or loses, rather—­as he gets number one.  The noose of one of these common manilas is attached to Mike’s neck, th’ other end is fastened to th’ bridge, an’ he’s dropped over.

“An’ would you b’lieve it?  When Mike comes to the end of that there rope with a jerk, th’ rope breaks, an’ Mike goes cavortin’ down that swift stream, at th’ rate of ‘bout thirty miles an hour, bumpin’ against th’ rocks an’ everythin’.  An’ he sure must ‘a’ disliked that, for he hated water.

“The next feller on th’ programmy was called ‘Sure Thing’ Jones.  You c’n imagine why he was called that.  He wouldn’t even risk bein’ honest.  Well, Sure Thing watches perceedin’s with a good deal of interest, an’ he sees Mike disappear ‘round a bend of them rapids, his arms an’ legs wavin’ somewhat wild.

“Then Sure Thing goes up to Lem, an’ he sez, ’Lem, have you got a braided linen rope in the outfit?’

“‘Sure,’ says Lem.  ‘Why?’

“‘It’s my turn next, an’ I wish you’d use it on me,’ says Sure Thing.  ‘Ye see what happened t’ Mike, an’ I don’t want t’ take no chances.  You know I can’t swim.’”

“Just the same,” said Bill Jordan, determined to have the last word, “with all your advertisin’ for braided linen ropes, I’ll take old maguey for mine, swimmin’ or no swimmin’.”

In the midst of the laugh which had followed Buck’s grim tale, Sitting Bull, who had been lying near Whitey, rose to a sitting posture, his cave-like mouth open wide and raised at the corners, his eyes twinkling.

“See Bull!” Bill Jordan cried delightedly.  “He’s laughin’ at Buck’s story yet.  He’s sure got a sense o’ humor, that dog.  He’s just about human.”

Bull’s expression raised another laugh.  All the men liked him, but Bill was his especial admirer, and loved to dwell on Bull’s wonderful intelligence and tell stories about it.

“Me for bed,” said Jim Walker.  “After that jamboree las’ night I feel’s though I c’d sleep a month.”