"Aw, he'll keep!" laughed the straw-boss. "Hey, fellers, who wants the first guard to-night?"
Nobody spoke.
"Somebody's got to stand guard," he observed, running his eyes over the crowd. "First guard's the best—eight to half-past ten. Bill? Jim? Hank? Well, I'll make it Jim and Hank, anyhow—only way to keep 'em in camp. You boys know Mr. Lee's orders—no drinkin' now—I don't want to find you downtown!"
"Aw-haw-haw!" roared the crowd. That was a good one—he didn't want to find them downtown! Well, what would he be doing down there?
"Well, who's goin' to relieve us?" inquired Hank plaintively. "Last time we was down I had to stand guard all night!"
The bronco-twister ran his eyes over the crowd again, as if searching for some one.
"Where's that feller that refused a drink this evenin'?" he demanded facetiously. "He's the boy fer second guard—good and reliable—and Hinglish, too. Hinglish, I'll ask you and yore Mormon friend, Mr. Clark, to kindly stand the second guard. Bud and Bill third, and Jack and Buck fourth. I'm boss now, and I don't stand guard."
"Oh, thunder!" grumbled Brig, as he threw himself down on his bed. "I wish the boss would come back. Them rounders will stay in town all night. Let's take a little flier ourselves," he urged as Bowles lay down beside him. "We can git back in time!"
But a sudden sense of responsibility had come over Bowles as he observed how the crowd faded away, and he held Brigham to his post. At ten-thirty, in response to a hurried summons, they took a spare blanket for warmth and rode out to stand their guard.
The stars wheeled round in their courses and sank down in the west; the horses shifted about on the barren plain and made their customary efforts to escape; and when the first cold light of dawn crept in, it showed "Hinglish" and his Mormon friend still standing their lonely vigil.