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WHEREIN ANDY GREEN LIES TO A LADY.
In the soft-creeping dusk came Andy Green, slouched in the saddle with the weariness of riding since dawn; slouched to one side and singing, with his hat far back on his head and the last of a red sunset tinting darkly the hills above him.

Tip-toe on a pinnacle a great, yellow star poised and winked at him knowingly.

Andy's eyes twinkled answer as he glanced up that way.

"We've got her going, old-timer," he announced lazily to the star.
Six miles back toward the edge of the "breaks" which are really the beginning of the Badlands that border the Missouri River all through that part of Montana, an even five hundred head of the Flying U's best grade cows and their calves were settling down for the night upon a knoll that had been the bed-ground of many a herd.