28 DEEP FURROWS 



" Bah ! You're sure hopeless," grinned the owner of 

 the Two-Bar, giving his horse the rein. 



" Hope/wZ/" corrected W. R. Motherwell with a laugh. 

 " Tell Wilson, if you see him, that Peter Dayman and I 

 are expecting him over next week, will you ? And I say, 

 Mac, don't kill too many before you get home!" he 

 called in final jocularity. 



The flying horseman waved his hat and his " S'long " 

 came back faintly. The other watched till horse and 

 rider lost themselves among the distant wheat stooks. 

 The twinkle died out of his eyes as he watched. 



So McNair was another of them, eh? After all, that 

 was only to be expected of an old Indian fighter and 

 cow-puncher like him. Poor Bob ! He had his reputa- 

 tion to sustain among the newcomers hard rider, hard 

 fighter, hard drinker; to do it under the changed con- 

 ditions naturally required some hard talking on occa- 

 sion. While Mac had become civilized enough to keep 

 one foot in a cowhide boot planted in the practical 

 present, the other foot was still moccasined and loath 

 to forget the days of war-paint and whiskey-traders, 

 feathers and fears. Over the crudities and hardships, 

 the dirt and poverty, the years between had hung a 

 kindly curtain of glamor; so that McNair with his big 

 soft kerchiefs, his ranger's hat, his cow-puncher's saddle 

 and trappings and his " Two-Bar " brand was a figure 

 to crane an Eastern neck. 



Likeable enough chap too much of a man to be 

 treated as a joke to his face, but by no means to be 

 taken seriously not on most occasions. In the present 

 instance, with feeling running as high as it was in 

 some quarters, that crazy idea of seizing a few elevators 

 at the point of a gun ! What in heaven's name would 

 they do with them after they got them? Nevertheless, 



