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Mebby" and he hesitated, eying the pony "mebby I might git a chanct to tie up to your outfit. I'm sick of the woolies." "Don't blame you, amigo. If I hear of anything I'll come a-fannin' and tell you. So-long. She's one lovely mornin'." Pete turned and plodded down the dusty road.

But you're only an innercent little sheep, and they wan't no sense in his tryin' to stomp on you. "Well, I got to be stirrin' up them woolies. Sorry I got to tie you, but you're gittin' such a durned nuisance, with playin' half the night and slidin' down my tepee. I'll give you the big feed when I come down in the mornin', so say your prayers and go to bed like a good lamb orta."

"A band of woolies, a pack burro, one feller walkin', and another ridin'." The cowboy's eyes were unfriendly, though he made no comment as they waited. "Howdy!" called the Major genially as, with a nod, the herder would have passed without speaking. The stranger responded briefly, but stopped. "Come fur?" inquired the Major sociably. "Utah." "Goin' fur?" "Until I find a location.

What do you know about it, you woolies, punchin' cows down here in the rocks and cactus? "How's that, Miss Bunnair? W'y sure, he was hibernatin'! They all hibernate up in them cold countries.

"Well, if any of that gentry think they can drive their flock over here, and water their woolies at my expense, they're mistaken," declared Bud with emphasis. "Sheep men have to be, I reckon, but they're out of place in a cow country. Hello, there!" he called, loudly. "Come on out and show yourself!"

I did not. "Well," he proceeded, "over in Scotland when a feller sees a sheepman coming down the road with his sheep, he says: 'Behold the gentle shepherd with his fleecy flock! That's poetry. Now in Montana, that same feller says, when he sees the same feller coming over a ridge with the same sheep: 'Look at that crazy blankety-blank with his woolies! That's fact.

Pete had no love for the "woolies," yet he hated cattlemen. The old Mexican thanked him and invited him to visit his camp below Concho.

Show her that photygraph of the feller with the runnin' horse and tell her I said it was the picture of her father, and that he's scoured the country for her, spendin' more money to locate her than she'll make if she wrangles woolies till she's a hundred. Tell her a telegram would bring him in twenty-four hours on a special, probably.

They figure on keeping this county just as it is, for only themselves and their cattle and woolies, and everybody else keep out. The few big sheep and cattle men, white and Mex, have their minds made up to that, and they're the only ones who count; all the rest are poor Mexicans with nothing but fleas, children, goats and votes to keep Sorenson and his gang in control.

"Oh, thanks, Phares. I like his poems." "I thought you did. But I must go now," he said stiffly. "I'll see you to-night at Commencement. I hope you'll get through the oration all right." "Thanks. I hope so." When he was gone she made a wry face. "Whew," she whistled. "I'm sure Phares is a fine young man but he's too solemncoly. He gives me the woolies!