“‘Uncle taught me to box, and I used to wrestle with the Indians in the north.’ I learned after some trouble that he had licked the whole tribe at it.
“The rest of the journey was like a walk to church. I wanted him for the force, but he’s bound to make money and make it fast. That’s why he went to you. How is he doing?”
“All right. Quiet chap. The boys haven’t quite got on to him, poke fun at him a bit. ‘Squatty’ Hayes is inclined to ride him a bit.”
“Well, my advice to Mr. ‘Squatty’ Hayes is to not monkey with the band wagon or he may get his feet in the spokes.”
“He is keen now about learning the rope, working at it every off minute. He can ride all right, but doesn’t know the rope.”
“He’ll get it. That’s his kind. He’s a finisher, you hear me. I’m interested in that boy. Owe him a lot. Besides, he has a way that gets me. And the missus and the kids are just a little worse.”
“All right, Starr, we’ll do our best for him. We’ll shove him along all we can.”
The big Irishman was as good as his word, for before the summer closed on the Three-Bar-Cross Ranch Paul had worked his way to the first rank as a cowman and was drawing pay second only to the foreman, “Squatty” Hayes, and without exciting the envy of any of his fellow-riders, unless it was that of “Squatty” to a certain extent. But “Squatty” was too sure of himself and too lazy, if the truth be told, to worry over the rapid rise of a kid rider like Paul. The boy he bullied unmercifully, making him fetch and carry shamelessly. But Paul’s good temper and good cheer were unfailing and he never seemed to notice what was so obvious to every rider on the ranch as well as to every member of the McConnell household. Nor would he ever have noticed “Squatty’s” tendency to ride him had it not been that the indignant fury of McConnell’s fiery hearted and fiery headed sixteen-year-old daughter Molly made her take a hand in the game. One evening as Paul came riding up to the bunk house door after a long day in the saddle and was walking stiff and weary with his horse to the corral, “Squatty’s” big voice boomed out after him.
“Hey, there, kid! Bring up my bronk, will you? I’m in a hurry. Get a move on!”
“All right, ‘Squatty,’” answered Paul cheerily.