sent it in, I suppose, to feed the crew that's goin' to take charge of that simple-minded kid's cows."
"Listen! Isn't that somebody yelling?"
"You've got good ears, kid," said Maud, looking at her curiously. "Has that pain struck—"
"There! don't you hear him? It's somebody in trouble, I tell you, Maud."
"It's the camp cook singin'. They generally sound like they're in deep trouble when they sing," Maud said.
"Drive over a little nearer, let's listen again," Louise suggested.
"What's the use goin' any further out of our way just to hear—"
"Please, Maud. We've got plenty of time."
"I don't want to go buttin' into one of old Withers's cow camps," said Maud. She drove toward the wagon, in spite of her undoubted reluctance, approaching it within two or three hundred yards, where she stopped.
"Nobody around," she said.
Cal Withers, spread out on the wagon wheel, was on the opposite side, his head hidden by the canvas top. He heard them, and raised his high, cowboy note, which much whooping throughout the afternoon had not dulled.
"Does sound like somebody in trouble," said Maud, still half doubtful, entirely suspicious. "But you never can tell."
Maud was not moved by any great compassion when she drove around the wagon and discovered the cow-
