At last the beef roundup was over, with the fatigued riders and horses all gathered in camp. The H-B contingent was far from being sorry, since it is the hardest work connected with the range. A man must possess a good physical constitution with the nerve to bear up under the hardships incumbent on such a life. The cowboy is up at dawn to care for his horses, and ofttimes he rides from early morning till sunset. In some instances he does not return to camp until far in the night. He never considers appeasing his own hunger without first feeding, and sometimes rubbing down his tired mount. No difference what the weather, he works just the same, cutting out and branding the “slick-ears,” as the outfit goes from one grazing locality to another. This is kept up until the entire Reservation’s open range has been covered. During such rodeo, each stockman has his share of well mounted riders in the field.

Carter’s boys were now returning to the ranch for a well earned rest; and, but for the one tragedy, all would have been as happy as a bunch of school children out on a summer vacation. That memorial stone-heap back on the skyline of Badger Ridge, loomed a darkened shadow across an otherwise sunlit sky. But men leading the life of the range, are philosophically inclined to accept its vicissitudes along with its measurements of joy. The yesterdays, with whatever of grief and pleasure, as a trail never again to be traversed, is well forgotten. Present duty, and the lure of the future, is Nature’s balm for the wounded spirit. The boys were going home!

“Frenchy is game!” commented Carter, as they broke camp. “He stuck to his job through the roundup, and will make a real ‘puncher’ in time. But he’ll have to learn not to bounce so like rubber in the saddle.”

Jim had devoted his idle moments victimizing the verdant Parisian. As Foreman, qualified to give instructions, he insisted that, to become a good horseman, a beginner should at least ride one entire day without making any use of his stirrups. Frenchy heroically followed the suggestion, and the next morning when the camp moved, he mounted the chuck wagon instead of his horse. Perched on the blanket rolls, he doffed his hat in courteous acknowledgment to the lusty cheering of his companions as they cantered by. All this past, the Toy was now proudly riding in the midst of the merrymaking cavalcade. The boys were returning home.

The last camp was pitched on the banks of the Pend d’Oreille. Celluloid Bill pushed Frenchy from the shore in an old skiff, his only means of combating the swift current, a solitary broken oar. The riders watching the sport, thought that the victim would go insane. To all appearances, he knew nothing about rowing, and the deep muffled churning of the rapids was heard but a short distance below.39 When he saw that he was beyond immediate help from his associates, the Parisian began removing his cumbersome riding boots. This accomplished, he stood up, footgear in one hand. He gazed longingly at the surrounding mountains and the immediate woods; as though in a last farewell. The skiff, now in midstream was steadily gaining momentum. For one brief moment he hesitated, and then sprang overboard, to be directly overwhelmed by the turbulent tide.

Instantly the camp was a scene of animation. Celluloid, startled at the serious turn of his joke, did not falter. With catlike action he leaped to his saddle and drove into the stream. He saw the Toy come to the surface, to instantly sink again from sight. The rescuer wisely giving rein, the powerful horse cut the water like a racing canoe. Submerged to his hips, his new “chaps” were soaked. But what of that? He was going to rescue his “amoosement-man”⁠—his “Toy.” The tanned cheek of the rider was a trifle pale. Just as he thought Frenchy gone for all time, he glimpsed his head appearing on the surge like a tossing pine cone, only to immediately disappear. Believing that he had seen the last of his companion, Bill, who stammered when under anger or great excitement, now turned in his saddle and yelled to those on shore:

“Th-there’s t-th’ la-last uv th’ po-pore d-de-devil! Wh-why in h-hell do-don’t s-so-some of yo’ pray?”

In a chorus the watchers urged him on. There was Frenchy’s head again. Bill continued the pursuit.

“I hater see the po’ cuss drown; I hater wade in the col’ water an’ fish him out,” lamented Silent Bob, as seated on a rock, he complacently observed proceedings.

The “drowning” man’s head was again visible, and notwithstanding the great distance, was caught in the loop of Celluloid’s out-flying lariat. Turning his horse shoreward, the “rescuer” called:

“Ca-catch ho-hold wi-with yo’ ha-han’s! I’ll pu-pull yo’ o-out!”

A hearty laugh went up from the bank as Bill, trailing his rope, approached the shore. He understood its significance when the “drowning” man passed him, swimming with the steady, powerful stroke of the professional. He turned beamingly to his “rescuer” and urged:

“Com-et on! you dam-et fool! Mabee you shovet again ze boat. No?”

Bill reached shore disgusted and in very ill humor; the unrestrained chaffing by the boys but adding to his discomfiture. Passing the chuck-wagon, he unsaddled his dripping mount, taking unusual time in rubbing him dry. He felt beaten! tricked by the French Toy. His horse cared for, he sauntered to the camp fire, where the riders were complimenting Frenchy on his skill as a swimmer and his ability in coping with the most persistent of his tormentors. The Parisian was the first to mark the approach of the tall figure and challenged:

“I betcha I sweem ze re-var, coom back. I go ze bad ra-pads too! You no go? Yis?”

“Don’t care to swim any river tonight,” replied Celluloid with an effort at unconcern. “Too durn’ col’. All I’m sorry for is yo’ didn’t drown. The skiff is lost which was a heap more valerable than a lot of fellers I know roun’ here. It belonged to that there ‘Geezar’ over there and he’s stingy as hell. I’m a thinkin’ there’ll be th’ devil to pay. Say! Frenchy!” he exclaimed with sudden interest. “Yo’ got a lot of money an’ yo’ have to make good that there old tub. ’Sides, yo’ let it go a purpose an’ yo’ had all th’ fun. I have a pair boots I’ll give yo’, ’cause yo’ lost yo’ own.”

Frenchy was in high glee and readily agreed to settle for the missing craft. Bill was still more surprised at the aquatic skill of the “French water-frog” as he termed him, when he learned that the swimmer had saved his boots. Nonplussed, he inquired:

“Where did yo’ learn th’ water so like a duck?”

“I go ze swell col-lage. Profass-ar, I teach ze dook swim. I row ze boat good plen-ta.”

The boys had not dreamed that their Toy was a graduate from one of the highest educational institutions of France, and an instructor in boating and swimming; and that he commanded wealth sufficient to buy, many times over, the ranch and outfit for which he was working.

While Bill was drying his wet clothing at the fire, there came a hearty: “Hell‑o! boys!” and the “Geezar,” a tall, lank stockman and owner of the lost skiff, rode within the camp-light. Dismounting and dropping his bridle reins to the ground, he entered into conversation with Carter on general topics of the range and prospective beef prices. Noticing Bill, the “Geezar,” who stammered slightly, asked:

“Wh-what yo’ d-doin’, th-there, f-foller? B-bin s-sw-swimmin’?”

Bill’s anger immediately arose. He surmised that the boys had already acquainted the visitor with the river joke and that he was being made the center of all amusement for the camp; and that the “Geezar” was mimicking his weakness of speech. He answered belligerently:

“N-n-none of yo’ d-durn’ b-bi-bisnes! fe-feller!”

The “Geezar,” laboring under the same impression as was his opponent, retorted in no uncertain tones:

“I-I’ll m-ma-make it m-my b-bisness!”

Dropping his wet clothing, Bill sprang to his feet.

“Y-yo’ w-wh-white l-li-livered c-cur! I’m n-not go-goin’ to l-let a-any s-son of a gu-gun m-mo-mock m-my t-ta-talk!”

“I’m n-not mo-mockin’ you! Y-yo’re th’ o-one w-who’s m-ma-makin’ a d-dam’ fool of yo’ s-sel⁠—”

Bill struck madly, but the “Geezar,” ducking, the blow went wild. He came back viciously, but Bill parried successfully and they clinched. Down they went in a heap, each struggling for the ascendancy. While Bill was the more active, the “Geezar” had the advantage in strength. He secured a grip on the cowpuncher’s throat, who, finding himself losing, jerked his six-shooter. But as the gun came free, a firm hand grasped his wrist and Carter spoke:

“Hold on! Bill! You’re going too far.”

Jim had, at the same time, caught the “Geezar” in an iron grapple and the men were snapped apart. Bill dropped his gun into its holster, while both men were stammering and swearing furiously. Some of the boys, discerning the joke, began laughing at the two unfortunates. Rodeo Jack and Leather Slim, the latter from a distant part of the range and a late recruit to the H-B outfit, were rolling on the ground, yelling with delight. Frenchy was doubled with merriment. Celluloid Bill glared at the crowd, while the “Geezar” sulked in rage.

“What are you fellows fighting about?” questioned Carter.

“Th-that t-there c-cuss m-mo-mocked my t-ta-talk.”

The real truth struck the “Geezar” who broke in:

“W‑hy I th-thought yo’ w-was a m-mockin’ m-me in my t-talk.”

The pines rang with the roar of laughter that went up from a score of throats. Carter, holding his aching sides, managed to explain to Bill that the “Geezar” stammered slightly, and that it was not assumed as he had supposed. Even Silent Bob was constrained to smile, as he lolled by the fire. Turning to Bill, he moaned audibly:

“I’d hater see yo’ kill that there po’ feller; I’d hater help hang yo’ for bustin uv his haid.”

The two late belligerents looked at each other sheepishly. Bill, with the second joke of the evening on him, extended his palm:

“Put ’er there! ol’ pard! an’ shake on it. We’ll call it square.”

The “Geezar” took the proffered hand and shook it heartily, as he said:

“Wh-why! at f-first, p-pard, I t-thought yo’ was m-mockin’ me.”

“An’ I thought yo’ was a mockin’ me in my talk. That’s why I got mad.”

The two again shook hands, joining in the hilarity at their expense. Later, the “Geezar” rode away and the camp quieted down, the boys smoking or playing cards by the fire light.

“Well, I’ll be darned!” mused Bill after remaining in deep thought for some time. “Now if I’d a hit that there pore feller’s skull an’ a busted it, I’d a been hung to a tree an’ two good men, best in th’ country, a been gone for nothin’. Guess I’ll have to jug my temper. Don’t pay havin’ it get ’way with a feller.”

At length, each rider sought the comfort of his blankets and soon all⁠—save one⁠—was in slumberland. Jim could not sleep. The three weeks from Cogewea had seemed interminable and he was glad that only a few more hours intervened until he would be with her again. Long he lay, pondering. Had she drifted farther from him during their separation? Had the hated tenderfoot, taking advantage of the situation, pressed his suit to a successful termination? If so, and he proved worthy⁠—was true and kind to her⁠—then Jim would say no more. He would accept his disappointment without complaint. But if, as he suspected, the Easterner was playing a false hand, then he would do well to “pull his freight” before complications set in; for should the little gal suffer wrong because of him, he would surely kill him. He would then go away and try forget all about the wild beauty with the bewitching eyes.

Finally he fell asleep and it seemed that the next moment Bill kicked him with the admonition:

“Hey! ol’ skate! Oats is a waitin’. Get on yo’ nose bag while th’ coffee’s hot. Nice way for a foreman to be sleepin’ when so clos’ home an’ his gal a wearyin’ her eyes lookin’ for him. Not s’prised if that there tenderfoot jaybird ain’t cap’tred her; even if he can’t ride a cayuse without breakin’ his arm. Don’t allers ’quire th’ best rider of th’ Flathead to carry off a prize.”

Celluloid Bill turned away, chuckling, as Jim got up without a word. The sun, a glowing orb, was bursting over the distant Rockies, flooding the land with warmth and gladness. But to the foreman, over it all there seemed to loom an ominous shadow.