A RANCHMAN'S RECOLLECTIONS 



I watch the grass birds as they nest in the profu- 

 sion of beauty, and the bees as they gather honey. 

 The perfume of flowers and grass, as vagrant breezes 

 drift it here and there, must be a joy to every hving 

 thing. 



Supper on the ranch usually comes at dusk. The 

 bell rang, and the boys in their silent way drifted 

 into the messroom, but there was no childish voice. 

 The mother appeared in the kitchen door with the 

 query, "Where is Curley?" No one knew; no one 

 had seen him. Then a face went white, followed by 

 solemn-visaged cowboy faces that through their 

 bronze grew even whiter. Supper was forgotten. 

 Every man dashed for his night horse. The disci- 

 pline of the ranch came quickly; a silent mounted 

 group drew round the strawboss; there were quick, 

 clear orders as to districts and signals. Then "Molly" 

 O'Hare, the horse wrangler, Curley's slave, said, 

 "Call Jack; he can find him." Some one called, but 

 Jack did not answer. Then there was a shout of joy, 

 "Jack is with him; he is safe." 



As the band rode off there came the first sharp, 

 shrill "ki-yi" of the coyotes. One makes enough 

 noise for a pack. To the lost child hunters there 

 seemed to be thousands of coyotes. From every di- 

 rection they seemed closing in. It was as if thou- 

 sands were sounding their hungry call on the night 

 air. Was Jack with Curley? Jack was getting old. 

 How long could he fight off the coyotes? Would 



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