THE MYSTERY OF STIRRUP RANCH. 



333 



on a strange trail, with a big storm 

 raging on top of the range. I didn't 

 wave my hands and holler. I didn't 

 swing my quirt and sock in the spurs. 

 It isn't always safe on a strange 

 trail, and praying was surely a new 

 route to me. I just settled down easy 

 like in the saddle, tightened up a little 

 on the reins, drew in my knees a bit 

 and started out with long, easy 

 strides, for I didn't know how far I'd 

 have to go. 



I guess my message reached head- 

 quarters on time, for the next morn- 

 ing at sunup, just as the first rays 

 were creeping over the tops of the 



long hay ricks, and tipping ioo or 

 more pairs of long horns in the big 

 feeding corral, down over the old 

 Buena Vista trail, riding one and 

 leading another sorry looking bron- 

 cho, came a lone horseman. Tired 

 and worn out, he dropped the reins at 

 the cabin door and walked in. Not a 

 word was spoken, but we pointed to 

 the corner where the sick boy lay. 

 Then a faint voice whispered "Dad," 

 as the stranger buried his face in the 

 pillow beside his boy. 



I had ridden the "Valley of Death" 

 over the Gospel trail without losing a 

 shoe. 



LITTLE JACK. 



Winner of 26th prize in Recreation's 7th Annual Photo Competition. 



AMATFUR PH 'TO B( GUY V. BURKE. 



"If you find it impossible to keep open 

 your line of retreat," said the instructor in 

 the military school, "what ought you to 

 do?" 



"Open up a line of advance," was the 

 prompt reply. — Chicago Post. 



