MEN ARE STUPID Into that same dawn light filed the riders of the Rolling R, driving before them a small _remuda_.

Behind them clucked the loaded chuck wagon, the leathery-faced cook braced upon the front seat, his booted feet far spread upon the scarred dashboard, his arms swaying stiffly to the pull of the four-horse team.

Behind him still came the hoodlum wagon with its water barrels joggling sloppily behind the seat.

Little Curley drove that, and little Curley's face was sober.

It had been whispered in the bunk house that Skyrider was deep in disgrace, and Curley was worried.
On the porch of the bungalow Sudden stood with his morning cigar unlighted in his fingers, watching the little cavaleade swing past to the gate.