“H-e-e-e-e scraped his horn on a hickory saplin’,
  L-o-n-g t-i-m-e ago——­”

There was a sudden commotion behind him, a swift rush of feet, a muffled thud, and a gasping, agonized grunt.  The next instant the huge acetelyne lamp that lighted the room fell to the floor with a crash and the place was plunged in darkness.

“Queek, m’s’u, dees way!” a hand grasped his wrist and the cowpuncher felt himself drawn swiftly toward the door.  From all sides sounded the scuffling of straining men who breathed heavily as they fought in the blackness.

A thin red flame cut the air and a shot rang sharp.  Someone screamed and a string of Spanish curses blended into the hubbub of turmoil.

“De hosses, queek, m’s’u!”

The cool air of the street fanned the Texan’s face as he leaped across the sidewalk, and vaulted into the saddle.  The next moment the big black was pounding the roadway neck and neck with another, smaller horse upon which the half-breed swayed in the saddle with the ease and grace of the loose-rein rider born.

It was broad daylight when the cowpuncher opened his eyes in an arroyo deep among the hills far, far from Las Vegas.  He rubbed his forehead tenderly, and crawling to a spring a few feet distant, buried his face in the tiny pool and drank deeply of the refreshing liquid.  Very deliberately he dried his face on a blue handkerchief, and fumbled in his pockets for papers and tobacco.  As he blew the grey smoke from his nostrils he watched the half-breed who sat nearby industriously splicing a pair of broken bridle reins.

“Did you get that ticket, Bat?” he asked, with a hand pressed tightly against his aching forehead.

The other grinned.  “Me, A’m no wan’ no ticket.  A’m lak A’m stay wit’ you, an’ mebbe-so we git de job togedder.”

The cowpuncher smoked for a time in silence.

“What was the rookus last night?” he asked, indifferently.  Then, suddenly, his eye fell upon the sorrel that snipped grass at the end of a lariat rope near the picketed black, and he leaped to his feet.  “Where’d you get that horse?” he exclaimed sharply.  “It’s Fatty’s!  There’s the reins he busted when he snorted loose!”

Again the half-breed grinned.  “A’m bor’ dat hoss for com’ ‘long wit’ you.  Dat Fatty, she damn bad man.  She try for keel you w’en you tak’ de shot at de wheel.  A’m com’ ‘long dat time an’ A’m keek heem in de guts an’ he roll ‘roun’ on de floor, an’ A’m t’row de bottle of wheesky an’ smash de beeg lamp an’ we com’ ’long out of dere.”  The cowpuncher tossed his cigarette away and spat upon the ground.

“How’d you happen to come in there so handy just at the right time?” he asked with a sidewise glance at the half-breed.

“Oh, A’m fol’ you long tam’.  A’m t’ink mebbe-so you git l’il too mooch hooch an’ som’one try for do you oop.  A’m p’ek in de door an’ seen Fatty gon’ shoot you.  Dat mak’ me mad lak hell, an’ A’m run oop an’ keek heem so hard I kin on hees belly.  You ma frien’.  A’m no lak I seen you git keel.”