Buddy swung down from his horse, unsaddled it and went staggering to the stable wall with the burden of a stock-saddle much too big for him.

He had to stand on his boot-toes to reach and pull the bridle down over the ears of Whitefoot, which turned with an air of immense relief into the corral gate and the hay piled at the further end.

Buddy gave him one preoccupied glance and started for the cabin, walking with the cowpuncher's peculiar, bowlegged gait which comes of wearing chaps and throwing out the knees to overcome the stiffness of the leather.

At thirteen Buddy was a cowboy from hat-crown to spurs-and at thirteen Buddy gloried in the fact.

To-day, however, his mind was weighted with matters of more importance than himself.
"The Utes are having a war-dance, mother," he announced when he had closed the stout door of the kitchen behind him.