It was like waking to the glory of God to sit up at
dawn and see the colours change on the dry ranges.
At the home ranch, again, Tim managed to get permission to stay
on. He kept his own mount of horses, took care of them, hunted,
and took part in all the cow work. We lost some cattle from
Indians, of course, but it was too near the Reservation for them
to do more than pick up a few stray head on their way through.
The troops were always after them full jump, and so they never
had time to round up the beef. But of course we had to look out
or we'd lose our hair, and many a cowboy has won out to the home
ranch in an almighty exciting race. This was nuts for the
Honourable Timothy Clare, much better than hunting silver-tips,
and he enjoyed it no limit.
Things went along that way for some time, until one evening as
I was turning out the horses a buckboard drew in, and from it
descended Tony Briggs and a dapper little fellow dressed all
in black and with a plug hat.
"Which I accounts for said hat reachin' the ranch, because it's
Friday and the boys not in town," Tony whispered to me.
As I happened to be the only man in sight, the stranger addressed
me.
"I am looking," said he in a peculiar, sing-song manner I have
since learned to be English, "for the Honourable Timothy Clare.
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