One year slipped into another, until five had passed since the birth of Jim\'s son Hal. The cattle did well and ill by turns, but mostly ill. The trusts were making their iron paws felt by the grasp in which they held the ranchmen—absolutely dictating their terms. A dry season often further augmented the disaster of Jim\'s ventures. Without repining he fought on, with only great-hearted Bill\'s advice and confidence to help him through the wearing time.

Green River, which had been the excuse for Carston\'s ranch, was in low spirits this sizzling summer afternoon. Throughout the long day the alkali plains had crackled under the withering sun, until the entire place lay covered with a heavy powder of dust. Even the straggling scrub-oak and green sage-brush seemed to be only nature\'s imitation of asbestos, so persistently were they radiating the heat of the past week. The adobe stable glared at the low adobe dwelling opposite. Neither gave evidence of any life within. A decrepit wagon with its tongue lolling out lay like a tired dog before the stable; beside it was heaped the dusty double harness with its primitive mending of rope and buckskin, while near the house a disordered hummock of pack-saddles and camp outfits further increased the disorder of the place. An unsteady bench, holding a tin basin, a dipper, and a bucket of water, and a solitary towel on a nail near by, were the sole tributes to civilization.

Big Bill, whose eyes were accustomed to the place, seemed indifferent to the unspeakable desolation of the ranch. He sat on a log that lay before the door of the hut and was used for social intercourse or wood-splitting. He was intent on braiding strands of buckskin, the ends of which were held by little Hal, who had grown into a winsome little lad and was the pet of all the men and his father\'s constant companion.

Across the river, towards the west, the same desolation met the eye. Even the sage-brush and scrub-oak seemed to have abandoned life in despair, and the Bad Lands stretched lifeless to the foot-hills of the snow-capped Uinta peaks. Even more poignant than the cruel ugliness of the place was the feeling that the great gaunt bird of failure brooded over the entire ranch.

As Bill clumsily twisted the braid the child eagerly watched him.

"Is it for me, sure, Bill?" he asked, as he slid close to the big fellow.

"Yes, old man," Bill answered, as he stooped to pat the dark head. "This is going to be for you, and there ain\'t any old cow-puncher can beat Bill making a quirt. No, sirree."

While he talked lightly to the child his mind was busy with unpleasant thoughts. The boys were about to strike for their money. Their wages had been overdue for some time, and the boss, finally driven to the wall by disease among the cattle, had been unable to satisfy them. So far there had been no outbreak, but Bill expected it every moment.

For days Jim had hardly spoken. That there was some important decision about to be made by him, Bill guessed. He sat and played with the child, but in reality this was only a ruse by which he might keep close to the place and await developments. From down the road he could hear the men coming and calling to him, but he gave no sign. He went on knotting the strands, and steadied little Hal\'s hands when the child grew tired of holding the quirt.

Shorty was the first to arrive, carrying his Mexican saddle and lariat. On his diminutive face was stamped an aggressive pugnacity. He was followed by Andy; Grouchy slouched in last, whittling at a piece of wood. As Bill surveyed them he knew that they had been talking things over and had arrived at some conclusion. They had been good workers in their time with him, and he knew even now, at heart, that they were not bad, but that life had tried them severely with its failures and disappointments. He waited for them to speak. There was a moment\'s silence, then Shorty, as he flung himself down on the bench, said:

"Say, Bill, I s\'pose you know the boys is gettin\' nervous \'bout their money, don\'t you?"

Bill just looked up, and then went on with his work as he answered, "To-morrow\'s pay-day." He would not anticipate them in their rebellion; he would make it hard for them to declare themselves.

"That\'s what," Shorty went on.

"Well, it\'s time to get nervous day after to-morrow." And still Bill braided the leather.

"They\'re goin\' to make trouble if they don\'t git it." Shorty acted as spokesman. Grouchy and Andy only nodded their heads in approval of their leader\'s words.

Bill stopped his work as he picked Hal up in his arms. "Are they?" he said. "Well, I reckon Jim Carston and me can handle that bunch." He spoke as though the others were not present.

"Maybe you kin; maybe you kin," Shorty retorted, as he flung the saddle against the walls of the cabin.

"Und say, Bill—und say—to-morrow\'s pay-day." Andy\'s voice trembled as he spoke. He was a gentle-mannered German, and the sight of Hal was not a good incentive for him to fight against the boss.

Hal began to listen and to look from one to the other. Bill noticed the child\'s look of inquiry and set him on the ground.

"Son, you run in and help your mother with the milking." He slapped his hands together as though a great joy were in store for the child, who laughed with glee as he hurried across to the stable.

The men waited for Bill to say something, but he only stood twisting a straw about in his mouth and pulling his hat-brim.

Again Andy\'s courage rose and he walked close to Bill. "To-morrow\'s pay-day, Bill—eh?"

"Is it? Do tell! Ain\'t you a discoverer! Say, Andy, you\'re neglectin\' the north pole a little."

This time it was Grouchy who answered, "Well, I want mine," and he viciously dug his knife into the hitching-post.

Bill looked from one to the other. Surely they would be reasonable; he would try them.

"Boys, it\'s seven years since the boss bought this ranch, and he\'s had an up-hill fight. Every one\'s done him. He bought when cattle was higher than they\'ve ever been since, and you know what last winter did for us; but he \'ain\'t ever hollered, and the top wages he paid you at the start he\'s been a-payin\' you ever since."

"Oh, what\'s the use!" Shorty interrupted. "The money is owed us. The only question is, do we git it?"

Backed up by Shorty, Grouchy began again, "Well, I want mine."

Only gentle Andy was silent. He could hear little Hal laughing as he played in the cow-shed.

Bill dropped his persuasive tone as he wheeled around on the men and in a sudden blaze said:

"Well, you know Carston and you know me. If you\'re lookin\' for trouble, we won\'t see you go away disappointed." He squared his shoulders as he spoke. "Oh, shucks!" He looked at the boys again. "It\'s no use," he began, more good-naturedly. "It\'s the business that\'s no good. Nothin\' in it. The packers has got us skinned to death. They pay us what they like for cattle, and charge the public what they like for beef. Hell!" he grunted, as he turned on his heel. "I\'m goin\' into the ministry."

This time Grouchy\'s "Well, I want mine" was extremely faint.

Before the others could speak again Bill quickly called, "Here\'s the boss now," and signalled the men to be silent.

They were touched by Jim\'s haggard face. They had not seen the boss for several days; he had been busy with accounts, Bill had told them. They began shuffling their feet as though about to leave. Each one thought perhaps it would be as well to wait until the next day. Shorty signalled them to come on, but Jim stopped them.

"Boys, I hear you\'re getting anxious about your pay. I don\'t blame you. My affairs are in a bad way, but I don\'t expect any one to share my bad luck. You\'ve earned your ............