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“Things aire goin’ ter be red-hot on ther Brazos, kid,” declared Nomad. “How you like um, huh?”

“Like um buenos,” replied the little Piute. “Pa-e-has-ka heap big chief. Where he go, me trail along. Cattle barons muy malo; Pa-e-has-ka get um on the run. Ugh!”

CHAPTER VII.

AT THE H-P RANCH.

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Early the following morning, Nate Dunbar closed and locked the door of the Star-A ranch house. The saddle horses were in front of the cabin, all in fine fettle after rest and forage.

The scout’s Bear Paw, the Laramie man’s humorously named Beeswax, the old trapper’s Hide-rack, the Little Piute’s pinto Navi, Dunbar’s Buckskin, and the circuit-rider’s roan called George—these were all in readiness and champing the bit to get away.

An hour’s ride down the Brazos would bring the party within sight of the extensive ranch buildings belonging to the H-P outfit.

At the place where Phelps had located his ranch headquarters, the Brazos described a wide bend. Bunk house, chuck shanty, corrals for the horse herds and owner’s house were all located on the tongue of land half circled by the river.

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