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Between the mouth of Hell’s Hip Pocket and the cow camp at Carrizo Creek there lie three high ridges and three broad valleys, all running north and south from the Peaks to Bronco Mesa –– the heart of the upper range; and there in compact bands the invaders held their sheep. From the lower levels they strayed out gradually over the rocky mesa; above they clambered up toward the wooded peaks; but at night the sheepmen worked back to the three ridges and camped close together for defence. After many years of struggle they had at last obtained their legal rights –– their sheep were up to the ears in grama, eating out the heart of the cow country –– but Jeff Creede was just over the hill, and the Mexicans were afraid. For years now the huge form of “Grande” had loomed before them whenever they entered that forbidden range, and they had always given way before him. And now he had the little man Chico with him, the son of a soldier, so it was said, and a gentleman of categoría; he always carried a pistol and his eyes were stern and hard. What would not Chico and Grande do to them, now that they were like bees robbed of their long-hoarded honey, who have nothing left but their stings?

So the word passed around amongst the herders and camp rustlers, and Jim and Jasp rode from one camp to the other, cursing and exhorting and holding them to their work. The hour of victory had come, but their triumph was poisoned by a haunting fear for their sheep. One hundred thousand sheep –– five hundred thousand dollars’ worth –– the accumulation of a lifetime –– and all in the hands of these cowardly Mexicans, not half of whom would fight! For the day or two that they held together they were safe, but when they spread out –– and spread they must, to reach the western pass –– then the cowmen could rush them at night like lions that raid a corral, scattering one band after the other, and the coyotes would do the rest! That was the joint in the armor of the sheepmen, and it robbed them of their sleep.

Evening came, and the fires of the camp rustlers on the ridges lit up the dust cloud that hung in the east. The hateful bray of the sheep was hushed, at last, and the shrill yell of the coyotes rose from every hilltop, bidding farewell to the sun; for as vultures and unnumbered birds of prey hovered in the wake of barbarian armies, casting their dread shadows upon the living and glutting upon the dead, so the coyotes follow tirelessly after the sheep, gorging upon chance carcasses and pulling down the strays. As the wild, gibbering chorus rose and quavered back from the cliffs the cowmen at Carrizo glanced up from their supper and swore, and in the general preoccupation Hardy put down his plate and slipped away to the corral. He was sitting on the fence listening to the mad yelping of the coyotes and watching the shadows gather among the peaks, when Creede strolled over and joined him. There were times when he could read Hardy like a book, but at others the little man’s thoughts were hidden, and he brooded by himself. On such occasions, after a sufficient interval, Jeff esteemed it his duty to break in upon these unprofitable ruminations and bring him back to the light. So he clambered up on the top log and joined in the contemplation of nature.

“Hear them dam’ coyotes,” he observed sociably. “They’d cry that way if they’d had a chicken dinner, all around. I bet ye every one of ’em has got wool in his teeth, right now. Never you mind, birdie,” he continued, apostrophizing a peculiarly shrill-voiced howler, “I’ll give you a bellyful of mutton pretty soon, if it’s the last act. What you going to do now, Rufe?”

“Well,” answered Hardy, “I think I’ll try and earn my salary by moving a few sheep. And of course we want to gather every beef critter we can now, while they’re fat. The sheep seem to be hugging the mountain pretty close. What’s the matter with working the Pocket Butte to-morrow and while the boys are riding we’ll warn all the stragglers down there to keep up against the hills; then as soon as we get ’em located we’ll jump in some day and move ’em!”

“Huh?” inquired Creede, shoving back his hat and staring. “Did I hear you say ‘move ’em’? Well –– er –– I thought you left your gun at home,” he suggested guardedly.

“That’s right,” admitted Hardy, “but don’t you let that worry you any. I told you I’d help move those sheep, and I’ll do it! We don’t need guns, anyhow. Why, I’d just as soon tackle a rattlesnake bare-handed as go after Jasp Swope with my six-shooter. That’s just what he’s looking for, boy, with all those thirty-thirties behind him, and he’ll have plenty of witnesses there to swear us into Yuma, too. I tell you, Jeff, I’ve been thinking this over, and I believe my boss is right.”

“Sure,” said Creede, showing his teeth in the twilight.

“Say, let up on that, will you?” exclaimed Hardy irritably. “I’m talking business. Now you let me tell you something.” He paused, and fixed his eye on the dust cloud, intently. “I’ve moved that many sheep twice,” he said, throwing out his hand, “and I left my gun at home.”

“That’s right,” conceded Creede.

“Well now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” continued Hardy. “If you’ll leave your gun at home too and stay with me on this I’ll undertake to shoot the last sheep out through West Pass inside of a week. And the only chance we take is of getting shot at or arrested for assault and battery. The Territorial Prison end of this gun business never did appeal me, anyway.”

“No –– nor me either! But what’s the scheme?”

The big cowboy leaned forward eagerly, his eyes flashing as he half guessed the plan.

“We ride out together,” said Hardy, his voice far away, as if he saw it in his mind’s eye, “unarmed –– and we notify every sheep-herder we see to move. If Jasp Swope or any of his men kill us while we’re unarmed it’ll be cold-blooded murder, and there’ll be witnesses to prove it. And if the sheep don’t move, we’ll move ’em! What kind of a crime is that, anyway –– to drive sheep off the public range? There isn’t an officer of the law within sixty miles, anyhow; and if anybody pulls a gun on us we can slug him in self-defence.”

“Sure,” agreed Creede, “but suppose one of them big-headed Chihuahua Mexicans should happen to shoot you?”

“Well then, I’d be dead,” said Hardy soberly. “But wouldn’t you rather be dead than shut up in that hell-hole down at Yuma?”

“Yes!” cried Creede, holding out his hands as if taking an oath. “I would, by God!”

“Well, come on then!” said Hardy, and they shook hands on it like brothers.

When the rodéo outfit was gathered together in the morning Jefferson Creede deliberately unstrapped his cartridge belt and threw his pistol back onto his bed. Then he winked at his partner as if, rightly understood, the action was in the nature of a joke, and led the way to Pocket Butte.

“You fellows rake the ridges to Bullpit Valley,” he said, briefly assigning every man to his post. “Rufe ’n me’ll hold ’em up for you about four o’clock, but don’t rush the funeral –– we’re goin’ to move a few sheep first.”

He smiled mysteriously as he spoke, staving off their pointed queries with equivocal answers.

“See you later,” he observed, turning his horse into a sheep trail, and with that the outfit was forced to be content.

The offending sheep were found feeding along the eastern slope of a long ridge that led down from the upper ground, and the herders were camped on the summit. There were four men gathered about the fire and as the cowboys approached three of them picked up their carbines and sat off to one side, fingering the locks nervously. The appearance of Jeff Creede spelled trouble to all sheepmen and there were few camps on Bronco Mesa which did not contain a herder who had been unceremoniously moved by him. But this time the fire-eating cowman rode grandly into camp without any awe-inspiring demonstrations whatever.

“Are those your sheep?” he inquired, pointing to the grazing herd.

“Sí señor,” responded the boss herder humbly.

“Very well,” said Creede, “move ’em, and move ’em quick. I give you three days to get through that pass.” He stretched a heavily muscled arm very straight toward the notch in the western hills and turned abruptly away. Hardy swung soberly in behind him and the frightened Chihuahuanos were beginning to breathe again after their excitement when suddenly Jeff stopped his horse.

“Say,” he said, turning to the boss, “what you carryin’ that cow’s horn for?”

At this pointed inquiry the boss herder flinched and looked downcast, toying uneasily with the primitive instrument at his side.

“To blow,” he answered evasively.

“Well, go ahead and blow it, then,” suggested Creede amiably. “No –– go on! I don’t care what happens. Aw here, let me have it a minute!”

He grabbed the horn away impatiently, wiped the mouthpiece with his sleeve, drew a long breath, and blew. A deep bass roar answered to his effort, a bellow such as the skin-clad hunters of antiquity sent forth when they wound the horn for their hounds, and the hills and valleys of Carrizo and the upper mesa echoed to the blast.

“Say, that’s great!” exclaimed the big cowboy, good-naturedly resisting the appeals of the herder. “I used to have one like that when I was a boy. Oh, I’m a blower, all right –– listen to this, now!” He puffed out his chest, screwed his lips into the horn, and blew again, loud and long.

“How’s that for high?” he inquired, glancing roguishly at his partner. “And I could keep it up all day,” he added, handing the horn back, “only I’ve got business elsewhere.”

“Oyez, amigo,” he said, bending his brow suddenly upon the Mexican herder, “remember, now –– in three days!” He continued the sentence by a comprehensive sweep of the hand from that spot out through the western pass, favored each of the three Chihuahuanos with an abhorrent scowl, and rode slowly away down the hogback.

“Notice anything funny over on that ridge?” he asked, jerking his head casually toward the east. “That’s Swope and Co. –– the Sheepmen’s Protective Association –– coming over to rescue companero.” A line of rapidly moving specks proved the truth of his observation, and Creede’s shoulders shook with laughter as he noted their killing pace.

“I tumbled to the idee the minute I set eyes on that cow’s horn,” he said. “It’s like this. Every boss herder has a horn; if he gits into trouble he blows it and all hands come a-runnin’ to shoot holes in Mr. Cowman –– think I’ll make one myself.”

He halted behind a rock and scrutinized the approaching horsemen over the top.

“That’s Jasp, in front,” he observed impersonally. “I wouldn’t mind ownin’ that black mule of his’n, neither. We’ll jest wait until they dip down into the cañon and then double in back of him, and scare up them hombres over at the mouth of Hell’s Hip Pocket. We want to git ’em started out of that. I believe you’re right, though, Rufe –– we can run this bunch out without firin’ a shot.”

That evening after the day’s riding Creede sat down on his heels by the fire and heated the end of an iron rod. In his other hand he held a horn, knocked from the bleaching skeleton of a steer that had died by the water, and to its end where the tip had been sawed off he applied the red-hot iron, burning a hole through to the hollow centre.

“Jim,” he said, turning to one of the Clark boys, “do you want a little excitement to-morrow? Well then, you take this old horn and go play hide ’n’ seek with Jasp. Keep him chasin’, and while the rest of the boys are gatherin’ cattle Rufe and me will move a few sheep.”

“Well, say,” broke in Ben Reavis impatiently, “where do us fellers come in on this play? I thought there was goin’ to be a few shap lessons and a little night work.”

“Well,” responded the rodéo boss philosophically, “any time you fellers want to go up against them thirty-thirties you can do so. It’s your own funeral, and I’ll promise to do the honors right. But I’m a law-abidin’ cuss myself. I’m all the law now, ever since I talked with Jim Swope –– it’s the greatest graft they is.”

He paused, busily scraping his horn with a piece of glass.

“They’s no doubt about it, fellers,” he said at last, “we’ve been slow in the head. It’s a wonder we ain’t all of us makin’ hat bands in Yuma, by this time. I used to think that if you didn’t like a sheepman’s looks the way to do was to wade in and work him over a little; but that’s a misdemeanor, and it don’t go now. It took as good a man as Rufe, here, to put me wise; but I leave my gun in camp after this. I’ve got them Greasers buffaloed, anyhow, and Jasp knows if he plugs me when I’m unarmed it’ll be a sure shot for the pen. The time may come when guns is necessary, but I move that every man leave his six-shooter in his bed and we’ll go after ’em with our bare hands. What d’ ye say, Ben?”

Ben Reavis rose up on one elbow, rolled his eyes warily, and passed a jet of tobacco juice into the hissing fire.

“Not f’r me,” he said, with profane emphasis.

“No, ner f’r me, either,” chimed in Charley Clark. “A man stays dead a long time in this dry climate.”

“Well, you fellers see how many of my steers you can ketch, then,” said Creede, “and I’ll move them sheep myself –– leastways, me and Rufe.”

“All right,” assented Reavis resignedly, “but you want to hurry up. I saw a cloud o’ dust halfway to Hidden Water this afternoon.”

The next morning as the rodéo outfit hustled out to pick up what cattle they could before they were scattered by the sheep, Jim Clark, tall, solemn-faced, and angular, rode by devious ways toward the eastern shoulder of the Four Peaks, where a distant clamor told of the great herds which mowed the mountain slopes like a thousand sickles. Having seen him well on his way Creede and Hardy galloped down the cañon, switched off along the hillside and, leaving their horses among the rocks, climbed up on a rocky butte to spy out the land below. High ridges and deep cañons, running down from the flanks of the Four Peaks, lay to the east and north and west; and to the south they merged into the broad expanse of Bronco Mesa.

There it lay, a wilderness of little hills and valleys, flat-topped benches and sandy gulches threaded minutely with winding trails and cow paths, green with the illusion of drought-proof giant cactus and vivid desert bushes, one vast preserve of browse and grass from the Peaks to the gorge of the Salagua. Here was the last battle-ground, the last stand of the cowmen against the sheep, and then unless that formless myth, “The Government,” which no man had ever seen or known, stepped in, there would be no more of the struggle; the green mesa would be stripped of its evanescent glory and the sheep would wander at will. But as long as there was still a chance and the cows had young calves that would die, there was nothing for it but to fight on, warily and desperately, to the end.

As Jefferson Creede looked out across that noble landscape which he had struggled so resolutely to save and saw the dust clouds of the sheep drifting across it, the tears came to his eyes and blinded his keen vision. Here at last was the end of all his struggles and all his dreams; another year, or two years, and the mesa would be devastated utterly; his cows would be hollow-flanked and gaunted; his calves would totter and die, their tender lips pierced with the spiny cactus upon which their hard-mouthed mothers starved; and all that fair land which he knew and loved so well would be lost to him forever. He raised his hand to his eyes as if shading them from the sun, and brushed the tears away.

“Well, look at those sons o’ guns hike,” he said, baring his teeth venomously, “and every band headed for Hidden Water! Go it, you tarriers –– and if you can’t stop to eat the grass, tromple on it! But wait, and if I don’t push in some Greaser’s face to-day it’ll be because every one of them bands is headin’ for the western pass.”

He clambered slowly down from his perch and swung up into the saddle.

“Talkin’ never did do much good with a sheep-herder,” he observed wisely. “As the old judge used to say, ‘you’ve got to appeal to his better nature’ –– with a club.”

The most southerly of the seven bands was strung out in marching order, the goats in front, the hungriest sheep in the lead; and on both flanks and far behind, the groups and clusters of feeders, pushing out into the grassy flats and rearing up against the trees and bushes. Without a word to the herders Creede and Hardy took down their ropes and, swinging the hondas upon the goats, turned the advance guard northwest. The main herd and the drag followed, and then the herders, all in a bunch for courage.

“This is the last time I talk to you,” said Creede, his voice stifled with anger. “Turn to the north, now, and keep a-goin’.”

He put spurs to his horse and rode west to the second herd, and by noon they had turned all seven toward the western pass. Every herder had his cow’s horn and some of them were blowing continually, but no one answered, and a messenger was sent east for aid. They camped for the heat of the day, making smoke upon the ridges, but no help came. As the sun sank low and the curly-necked Merinos rose up from their huddle and began to drift the Mexicans turned them perforce to the north, looking back sulkily toward the mouth of Hell’s Hip Pocket where other smokes rose against the sky. Until the sun set they travelled, making their three miles and more, and not until they had corralled their flocks for the night did Chico and Grande, the little and big terrors of the sheep, give way from their strenuous labors.

It was two hours after dark when they rode wearily into the camp at Carrizo Creek. The fire was dying down to embers and the rodéo outfit, worn out, had turned in, some in the tin house, others outside, under the brush ramada to escape the dew. No one moved as they approached but Creede did not scruple to wake up Jim Clark in order to learn the news.

“How’d the old horn work?” he inquired cheerily.

“No good,” grunted Clark, rolling over.

“Aw, go on, wouldn’t they chase ye?”

“Nope. Nothin’ doin’. Say, lemme sleep, will ye?”

“Sure,” said Creede, “when I git through with you. Which way was them sheep travellin’?”

“Well, some was goin’ straight up over the Four Peaks and the rest was p’intin’ west. You and your old horn –– I nigh blowed my fool head off and never got a rise! They was all blowin’ them horns over by the Pocket this aft.”

“Um,” said Creede, “they was all blowin’, hey? And what else was they doin’?”

“Shootin’, fer further orders, and driftin’ their sheep. They’s about a hundred thousand, right over the hill.”

“Huh!” grunted Creede, turning to his belated dinner, “what d’ye make of that, Rufe?”

“Nothing,” replied Hardy, “except more work.”

It seemed as if he had hardly fallen asleep when Creede was up again, hurling the wood on the fire.

“Pile out, fellers!” he shouted. “You can sleep all day bimebye. Come on, Rufe –– d’ye want to find them sheep in the corral when you go back to Hidden Water?” And so with relentless energy he roused them up, divided out the work, and was off again for Bronco Mesa.

It was early when they arrived at the first deserted sheep camp, but search as they would they could see no signs of the sheep. The puny fire over which the herders had fried their bread and mutton was wind-blown and cold, the burros and camp rustlers were gone, and there was no guiding dust cloud against the sky. From the little butte where Creede and Hardy stood the lower mesa stretched away before them like a rocky, cactus-covered plain, the countless ravines and gulches hidden by the dead level of the benches, and all empty, lifeless, void. They rode for the second camp, farther to the west, and it too was deserted, the sheep tracks cunningly milled in order to hide the trail.

“They’re gittin’ foxy,” commented Creede, circling wide to catch the trend of their departure, “but I bet you money no bunch of Chihuahua Greasers can hide twenty thousand sheep in my back yard and me not know it. And I’ll bet you further that I can find every one of them sheep and have ’em movin’ before twelve o’clock, noon.”

Having crystallized his convictions into this sporting proposition the rodéo boss left the wilderness of tracks and headed due south, riding fast until he was clear of sheep signs.

“Now here’s where I cut all seven trails,” he remarked to his partner. “I happen to know where this sheep outfit is headin’ for.” With which enigmatic remark he jerked a thumb toward Hidden Water and circled to the west and north. Not half an hour later he picked up a fresh trail, a broad path stamped hard by thousands of feet, and spurring recklessly along it until he sighted the herd he plunged helter-skelter into their midst, where they were packed like sardines in the broad pocket of a dry wash.

“Hey there! Whoopee –– hep –– hep!” he yelled, ploughing his way into the pack; and Hardy swinging quickly around the flank, rushed the ruck of them forward in his wake. Upon the brow of the hill the boss herder and his helpers brandished their carbines and shouted, but their words were drowned in the blare and bray which rose from below. Shoot they dared not, for it meant the beginning of a bloody feud, and their warnings were unheeded in the mêlée. The herd was far up the wash and galloping wildly toward the north before the frantic Mexicans could catch up with it on foot, and even then they could do nothing but run along the wings to save themselves from a “cut.” More than once, in the night-time, the outraged cowmen of the Four Peaks country had thus dashed through their bands, scattering them to the wolves and the coyotes, destroying a year’s increase in a night, while the herders, with visions of shap lessons before them, fired perfunctory rifle shots at the moon. It was a form of reprisal that they liked least of all, for it meant a cut, and a cut meant sheep wandering aimlessly without a master until they became coyote bait –– at the rate of five dollars a head.

The padron was a kind man and called them compadres, when he was pleased, but if one of them suffered a cut he cursed, and fired him, and made him walk back to town. Hence when Chico and Grande suddenly gave over their drive and rode away to the northwest the Mexican herders devoted all their attention to keeping the herd together, without trying to make any gun plays. And when the stampede was abated and still no help came they drifted their sheep steadily to the north, leaving the camp rustlers to bring up the impedimenta as best they could. Jasper Swope had promised to protect them whenever they blew their horns, but it was two days since they had seen him, and the two Americanos had harried them like hawks.

Never had armed men so lacked a leader as on that day. Their orders were to shoot only in self-defence; for a war was the last thing which the Swope brothers wanted, with their entire fortunes at stake, and no show of weapons could daunt the ruthless Grande and Chico. All the morning the cow horns bellowed and blared as, sweating and swinging their hondas, the stern-eyed Americanos rushed band after band away. Not a word was passed –– no threats, no commands, no warnings for the future, but like avenging devils they galloped from one herd to the other and back again, shoving them forward relentlessly, even in the heat of noon. At evening the seven bands, hopelessly mixed and mingled in the panic, were halfway through the long pass, and the herders were white with dust and running. But not until dusk gathered in the valleys did Creede rein in his lathered horse and turn grimly back to camp.

His face was white and caked with dust, the dirt lay clotted in his beard, and only the whites of his eyes, rolling and sanguinary, gave evidence of his humanity; his shirt, half torn from his body by plunging through the cat-claws, hung limp and heavy with sweat; and the look of him was that of a madman, beside himself with rage. The dirt, the sweat, the grime, were as heavy on Hardy, and his eyes rolled like a negro’s beneath the mask of dust, but weariness had overcome his madness and he leaned forward upon the horn. They glanced at each other indifferently and then slumped down to endure the long ten miles which lay between them and home. It had been a stern fight and the excitement had lulled their hunger, but now the old, slow pang gnawed at their vitals and they rolled like drunkards in the saddle.

It was a clear, velvety night, and still, after the wind of the day. Their horses jogged dumbly along, throwing up their heads at every step from weariness, and the noises of the night fell dully upon their jaded ears. But just as they turned into Carrizo Creek Cañon, Creede suddenly reined in old Bat Wings and held up his hand to Hardy.

“Did you hear that?” he asked, still listening. “There! Didn’t you hear that gun go off? Well, I did –– and it was a thirty-thirty, too, over there toward the Pocket.”

“Those herders are always shooting away their ammunition,” said Hardy peevishly. “Come on, let’s get back to camp.”

“They don’t shoot in the night-time, though,” grumbled Creede, leading off again. “I’ll bet ye some of them Greasers has seen a ghost. Say,” he cried, “the boys may be out doin’ some night ridin’!”

But when they rode into camp every man was in his blankets.

“Hey, what’s all that shootin’ goin’ on over there?” he called, waking up the entire outfit in his excitement.

“Sheepmen,” responded some sleeper briefly.

“Cleanin’ their guns, mebbe,” suggested another, yawning. “Did you move ’em, Jeff?”

“You betcher neck!” replied Creede promptly, “and I’m goin’ back in the mornin’, too.”

The morning turned black, and flushed rosy, and fell black again, but for once the merciless driver of men slept on, for he was over-weary. It was a noise, far away, plaintive, insistent, which finally brought him to his feet –– the bleating of ewes to lambs, of lambs to mothers, of wethers to their fellows, beautiful in itself as the great elemental sounds of the earth, the abysmal roarings of winds and waves and waterfalls, but to the cowman hateful as the clamors of hell. As Creede stood in his blankets, the salt sweat of yesterday still in his eyes, and that accursed blat in his ears, his nerves gave way suddenly, and he began to rave. As the discordant babel drew nearer and nearer his passion rose up like a storm that has been long brewing, his eyes burned, his dirty face turned ghastly. Grabbing up his six-shooter he stood like a prophet of destruction calling down the wrath of God Himself, if there was a God, upon the head of every sheepman. But even as he cursed the first dirty brown wave spewed in over the ridge and swept down upon their valley. Then in a moment his madness overcame him and, raising his heavy pistol, he emptied it against them defiantly, while the resounding cliffs took up his wrath and hurled it back. A herder with his rifle leapt up on a distant rock and looked toward their camp, and at the sight the black anger of Jeff’s father came upon him, filling him with the lust to kill.

He rushed into the house and came out with a high-power rifle. “You will stand up there and laugh at me, will you?” he said, deliberately raising the sights. “You –– ”

He rested the rifle against one of the ramada posts, and caught his breath to aim, while the cowmen regarded him cynically, yet with a cold speculation in their eyes. Hardy alone sprang forward to spoil his aim, and for a minute they bandied words like pistol shots as they struggled for the gun. Then with a last wailing curse, the big cowboy snapped the cartridge out of his rifle and handed it over to his partner.

“You’re right,” he said, “let the dastard live. But if I ever git another chanst at Jasp Swope I’ll kill him, if I swing for it! He’s the boy I’m lookin’ for, but you see how he dodges me? I’ve been movin’ his sheep for two days! He’s afraid of me –– he’s afraid to come out and fight me like a man! But I’ll git ’im –– I’ll git ’im yet!”

“All right,” said Hardy soothingly, “you can do it, for all of me. But don’t go to shooting Mexicans off of rocks as if they were turkey buzzards –– that’s what gets people into the pen. Now, you just take my advice for once and wash some of that dirt off your face. You’re locoed, man –– you’re not a human being –– and you won’t be until you wash up and get your belly full.”

Half an hour later they sat down to breakfast, the burly fighting animal and the man who had taught him reason; and as they ate the fierce anger of the cowboy passed away like mists before the morning sun. He heaped his plate up high and emptied it again, drinking coffee from his big cup, and as if ashamed of his brutishness he began forthwith to lay out a campaign of peace. With sheep scurrying in every direction across the range in the great drive that was now on it was no use to try to gather cows. What they had they could day-herd and the rest would have to wait. The thing to do now was to protect the feed around the water, so that the cattle would not have to travel so far in the heat of summer. No objection being offered he gave each man a watercourse to patrol, sending one over into the Pocket to see what had happened to Bill Johnson; and then, with his gun packed in his bed, he started back with Hardy to watch over Hidden Water.

The sun was well up as they topped the high ridge; and the mesa, though ploughed through and through by the trails of the hurrying sheep, still shimmered in its deceptive green. Not for a month had there been a cloud in the sky and the grass on the barren places was already withering in the heat, yet in the distance the greasewood and the palo verdes and giant cactus blended into one mighty sheet of verdure. Only on the ground where the feed should be were there signs of the imminent drought; and where the sheep had crossed the ground lay hard and baked or scuffled into dust. In the presence of those swift destroyers the dreaded año seco had crept in upon them unnoticed, but soon it would scourge the land with heat and dust and failing waters, and cattle lowing to be fed. And there before their eyes, clipping down the precious grass, tearing up the tender plants, shearing away the browse, moved the sheep; army after army, phalanx and cohort, drifting forward irresistibly, each in its cloud of dust. For a minute the two men sat gazing hopelessly; then Creede leaned forward in his saddle and sighed.

“Well,” he observed philosophically, “they’re movin’, anyhow.”

They rode down the long slope and, mounting a low roll, paused again apathetically to watch a band of sheep below.

“Say,” exclaimed Creede, his eyes beginning to burn, “d’ye notice how them sheep are travellin’? And look at them other bands back yonder! By Joe!” he cried, rising in his stirrups, “we’ve got ’em goin’! Look at the dust out through the pass, and clean to Hell’s Hip Pocket. They’re hikin’, boy, they’re hittin’ it up for The Rolls! But what in the world has struck ’em?”

He stood up straight in his saddle, swinging his head from east to west, but no band of horsemen met his eye. He looked again at the flock below him –– the goats, forever in the lead, heading straight for the western pass; the herders swinging their carbines upon the drag –– and seemed to study upon the miracle.

“Have you got any money to spare, Rufe?” he inquired quietly.

“Sure,” responded Hardy.

“Well, then,” said Creede deliberately, “I’d like to make you a sporting proposition. I’ll bet you forty dollars to the price of a drink that old Bill Johnson has been shootin’ up their camps. Will you go me? All right, and I’ll make you a little side bet: I’ll bet you any money that Jim Swope has lost some sheep!”

He spurred his horse recklessly down the hill, grinning, and at the clatter of rocks the fearful herders jumped forward and raised a great clamor behind their sheep, whistling and clubbing their guns, but the heart of the monster Grande was no longer turned to wrath. He laughed and called out to them, leaping his horse playfully over washouts and waving his black hat.

“Cuidado, hombres,” he shouted, “be careful –– do not hurry –– look at the nice grass!” But despite this friendly admonition the herders still yelled and whistled at their sheep, jabbing them spitefully with the sharp muzzles of their rifles until at last, all riot and confusion, they fled away bleating into the west.