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The Circle G herd was flung to the four corners of the compass. Fifteen hundred of them were with the leaders; the other thousand had scattered over an area of ten miles, and for three days the outfit camped, rounding up the strays. In they came, by pairs and squads and fifties; gaunt-eyed kine that had left Texas with no flesh on their ribs and now were nothing but bone and skin. They grazed on the open prairie, they were off in the pockets of the broken land. From starlight to dusk the men of the Circle G rode a widening arc, following the plain prints in the soft and sandy soil. Tom counted a dozen dead animals along the path of the stampede, and later, when he rode into the rugged country to the west, he came upon a cutbank where a hundred of them had gone over and piled up, tier on tier, all dead. But on the morning of the fourth day Major Bob called a halt and flung his arm ahead, signal to be on with the drive.

"We're still shy a hundred or more," said Tom. "Give us to-day and we'll find most of 'em off there in the coulees and cedar brakes."

Major Bob shook his head. "I'll take the loss. No more time to be wasted. Riding north this morning I found the tracks of another herd. Somebody's before us, cutting west. San Saba!"

The foreman rode slowly to the fore, eyeing the Gillettes warily. "Yes, suh."

"Time for us to be watching our direction," said Major Bob. "Seems to me we ought to swing westerly somewhere round here. You remember the country from last year?"

San Saba swept the horizon. "Yes, suh, tole'bly well."

"Lead out, then. There's a party ahead of us. Steer as straight a line as you can."

The foreman nodded. The swing and drag pressed against the herd. It moved forward, on the last leg of the journey. The sullen skies gave way, the sun beat down day after day, the prairie steamed and grew dry, the coulees were bereft of water once more. North they travelled, arrow straight, with San Saba in the lead, never saying a word, never revealing what thoughts stirred behind his small red eyes. They crossed the trail of the other herd and lost it at a point where it swung directly into the dark and timbered land westward. Tom kept his peace. Yet all the while a vague suspicion stirred in the back of his head. And one day he came alongside his father and spoke quietly.

"You said you were bound for the country around the head waters of the Little Missouri, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Then it seems to me we're going too far north. We've passed the Grand and it sticks to my mind the Little Missouri makes an ox bow and sweeps south. I think I remember it from a map I've seen."

Major Bob rode for a mile without speaking. But his eyes were fixed on the back of San Saba, who was a hundred yards in front. "San Saba has been there. He's been a capable foreman to me. I have trusted him." He turned to his son. "You don't rub well with the man, do you?"

"I'll say nothing against him," replied Tom.

"No, of course you wouldn't. Matter of principle. East didn't wholly convert you. I hope, Son, you have never lost your eye for the centre of a target."

Tom held his silence, and Major Bob shook his head, just a little sadly. "Men must be as they are. God knows there is little enough softness in this world. Not that I would have it otherwise. San Saba!"

The foreman checked his horse and waited until the Gillettes came along. "Is it not time to swing west?" asked Major Bob, studying the foreman keenly.

San Saba appeared to verify his surrounding from the visible landmarks. "Not yet, suh, fo' a day. I am lookin' fo' a table-top butte with red streaks through it."

"Well, you know best. Remember, we can't afford to lose ground. That trail we passed makes me very uneasy—very uneasy."

San Saba raised his shoulders, saying nothing. His inscrutable eyes rested momentarily on Tom and the latter thought he saw a point of light break through the red pall. A point of light that gleamed and was suppressed. Then the foreman dropped his narrow chin, murmuring, "I'm doin' the best I can, suh. If yo' aim to turn west I'll say nothin'."

"Go ahead," replied Major Bob.

Tom dropped to the rear where Quagmire rode. Upon the wizened face was imprinted the sorrow of the universe. But he grinned at Tom and threw a leg around the saddle horn.

"Was a fortune teller once what told me I'd take a long trip. Paid him a dollar. Well, look what I got for my dollar. He said I was a gent that liked life. Hell, I got to like it! He tol' me I'd meet up with a dark lady an' she'd be a great influence to me. That gipsy sho' read my periscope."

"Met the lady, did you?" inquired Tom.

Quagmire squinted at the sun, the earth, and the remote horizon. "Rode a pitchin' hoss down by El Paso one year. Broke both collar bones, sprained a laig, an' bit myse'f in the middle o' the back. Laid up three months."

"What's that got to do with a dark lady?"

Quagmire spread his palms upward. "It was a black lady hoss."

Tom smiled. "Well, we live and we learn."

"Sometimes," amended Quagmire lugubriously, "we only live."

"It's the only life we've got," mused Tom.

Quagmire shifted his weight. "Now you spoke like my own son."

"If you'd had a son. Ever tried the institution of marriage for a reasonable length of time, Quagmire?"

"Shucks, no. I'm too stingy to divide my affections."

But much later, after a brooding study of the matter, he amplified this. "'Tain't exactly that, either, Tom. But, I tell you—I can sleep on grass and I can eat navy beans until said navy quits makin' 'em. Sorter hate to make a woman share that. My mamma was death on havin' me comb my hair. Mebbe that got me shy. Company ahead."

The herd came to a straggling halt Over an adjacent ridge came a solitary rider clad in fringed buckskin. Tom trotted to the fore to join the ensuing parley. Major Bob rode out to meet the stranger. The man's skin was like so much parfleche, and a beard draped itself from cheek bone to collar, out of which glittered two intensely black and exploring eyes. He raised a hand, Indian fashion, and kept his peace.

"Know this country?" asked Major Bob.

"Ort to," responded the man. "Yallerstone Bill be my name."

Major Bob signalled to San Saba, meanwhile pursuing his point. "Then you'll know in what direction is the junction of Red Willow Creek with the Little Missouri."

"If you be goin' thar," replied the plainsman, "ye sh'd of turned due west couple days back."

San Saba arrived in time to overhear this and immediately spoke up. "They's a table-topped butte with red streaks hereabouts, ain't they, suh?"

The plainsman spent one very short and noncommittal glance on the foreman. "Dunno of any."

Major Bob's face turned unexpectedly harsh. "Will you guide us?"

The man nodded after a little reflection. San Saba again broke in, a trace of heat in his words, "Major, suh, it strikes me oth'wise," but Major Bob shook his head.

"We'll depend on this man. Forward, now. By Godfrey, we have lost time! Forward."

San Saba held himself very straight. "Suh, if yo' mean to doubt my..."

The Major cut him short. "Never mind—never mind! Get back with the herd!"

The long line of cattle formed a dun-coloured crescent across the prairie. The speed increased, dust rose higher. And still Major Bob was unsatisfied, ranging back impatiently. Tom saw the mood of angry recklessness riding his father then, and it was with something akin to a shock that he discovered the same stirring impulse in himself. And when Lispenard, who seemed to hold himself aloof these days from all men but the foreman, came up with a subdued warning—"I'd trust San Saba sooner than I would that tough-looking fellow"—Tom broke in with unusual curtness.

"I wouldn't trust San Saba out of my sight, Blondy."

"Oh, look here! He's my friend, and I don't like to hear that said behind his back—"

"Then," said Tom, "you are at liberty to tell him I made the statement."

They left the level prairie behind, wound in and out of what seemed to be an old buffalo trail through the black, tree-studded hills. The guide kept almost out of sight, never stopping. Hour after hour, on the trail long before light until long after dusk. It even wrung a dismal groan from Quagmire.

"They say death is a long sleep. Mebbe that's why we ain't doin' none of it now."

But the day at last came when the guide poised himself on a ridge and waited for them to catch up. Major Bob galloped ahead, beckoning to the men nearest him. When Tom arrived, the guide was pointing to the west. "Thar she is."

The rugged land formed a kind of bowl, the bottom of which made an isolated valley. In the distance, one side of the bowl gave way to the banks of the Little Missouri. Directly across the grassy plain ran a creek, sparkling under the sun. Cottonwoods fringed the edge of the distant rive and above the trees wavered a spiral of smoke. That caught and held their attention. Major Bob studied it long and in tently. "Must be Big Ruddy's fire."

"I'm afraid it won't be that," muttered Tom. "Look over to the right—right where the ridge breaks into small pockets."

Cattle! Cattle browsing peacefully along the slopes. And by their number and the compactness of their position it seemed to indicate they had only been thrown on the land a little while before. Major Bob rose in his stirrups, shaded his eyes. When he swung to the others there was danger in his eyes. In passing, his glance fell upon the foreman and rested there one long, grim moment. San Saba appeared to catch up his muscles, to draw off; his features became pinched. But the Major had nothing to say to him at that time. "Quagmire," he cried, "get back and bring the crew! Bring them with their guns! By Godfrey, if anyone's jumped this valley from me they'll have to fight! Come on!"

It was not the guide's fight, and he let them go. Three together—the Major, Tom, and San Saba—they galloped down and across the little valley. Grass stood high along the ponies' legs, the creek was crystal clear; Tom surveyed this little paradise, acknowledging to himself in a wistful moment that it was worth driving a thousand miles to possess. All that man could want was right here, and though the land to either side might be equally fertile, it didn't seem to him possible there would be another site as ideal as this. The Major seemed to think so, too, for his eyes kept roving across the ground, and his head jerked from side to side as he flung out his few bitter words.

"I was uneasy about those tracks we saw! Very uneasy! Well, it's mine by squatter's right. Mine, by Godfrey! If they've shoved Big Ruddy off they'll have to fight! They'll have to fight me!"

San Saba lagged, saying nothing at all; his face was quite set, quite unusually devoid of expression.

They came to a thicket and followed single file through it and on into the cottonwoods. The path broadened. Tom's eyes saw fresh ax marks and, as they went onward through the trees, his eyes discovered a lane leading into a clearing. There were wagons ahead, the smoke of a fire—and men standing in a group with rifles cradled. His father was to the fore and seemed not to see, so he called out.

"Watch close there. I think they've got a reception committee."

"They'll have to fight, I tell you!"

A moment later the three of them had left the trees. Sharp warning fell athwart their path.

"Stop where you are!"

They reined in. In the moment of silence ensuing Tom took in the whole scene at one sweep. Eight men stood in a semicircle, each armed. To the front of the group was one who seemed to be in command—a short, paunchy gentleman with grizzled whitish hair and an excitable face. They had not been here long, for a dozen freshly peeled logs were rolled in a pile, the beginning of a cabin. Beyond the clearing were the banks of the Little Missouri. Still farther beyond stretched the naked hills. It was all very peaceful—all save this crew who stood so stolidly by their guns.

Major Bob was in a thundering temper, yet he mustered a semblance of courtesy. "And why, sir, this exhibition of guns?"

The paunchy gentleman spoke in rapid-fire phrases. "Hell's pit! You come swarming in on me like renegades! Got to watch out for 'em. Country's full of that kind. If you're peaceable, I'll down guns."

"What outfit are you?" shot back Major Bob.

"Colonel Jefferson Wyatt—Diamond W. Migrated from Texas. Sir, I believe I hear the Southern accent in your speech. To whom am I indebted..."

Major Bob broke through this parley. "Don't you know you are jumping my grass?"

"Sir!" cried Wyatt, turning purple. "By the whiskers of St. Anthony, that's a fine come-ye all! Your grass? Why, curse me, it's free grass, not your grass! Territory of Dakota belong to you? Not by a bag full of shot!"

Major Bob seemed to grow calmer as the interview progressed, and Tom knew this to be an ominous sign. "I lay not claim to the territory of Dakota, Colonel Wyatt. But I most assuredly lay claim to this ground. I had my men locate it last year. I kept one man on it to hold my title. That man is here. He represents me. You will have to move, sir."

Colonel Wyatt barked out, "Where is your man, then, eh? Where is your man, if you had one here?"

"I do not see him, very true," admitted Major Bob, every syllable dripping formal politeness. "It may be, sir, you can produce him quicker than I could."

"'Postles and prophets!" shouted Wyatt. "You are trespassing on my honour, sir! Now, look here. If you had any man on the ground, he ought to leave some mark. D'you see blessed sign of improvement, a single scrap to indicate. Any cabin, any sheds? You know you don't. But I will tell you something more, sir. I will tell you I had two men here these three months, waiting for me. Now, let's see what they say. Anse—Rob, step up."

Tom's attention never left Wyatt's face. That anger might be real. Probably it was real, for the man seemed to have little control of his temper. And yet it seemed to him there was a furtive watchfulness in those shifting black eyes. When he summoned his two punchers it smacked a little of stage play, as did his examination of them.

"Now, boys, did you see any man on this ground when you came here for me? Answer straight now. I'll have no lies out of my camp."

One of the two took it upon himself to reply a surly, "Nope. Saw nary a soul."

"There you are. I will not say, sir, that you had no man. But I will say that if you did have one here, he mos' assuredly skinned out. That's not my fault. I will remind you again it is free grass. First come, first served."

He was on the point of adding more, but the appearance of the rest of the Circle G crew threw him into plain uneasiness. With one arm he motioned his own men to spread farther apart, at the same time warning Major Bob, "No more about it. I'll stand on my rights. Don't want no trouble, now. You had better withdraw your men."

"I am going to have a look," decided Major Bob calmly. And suiting the action to the word he rode toward the river.

Wyatt moved over, spreading his arms. "You will do no such thing. My word is good enough for you. Get off my land."

Major Bob leaned forward with just a piece of a smile on his face. "I will ride to that river, sir, or I will blow every man in your crew to pieces. Step aside!"

Tom had been watching the crew for the first open sign of hostility, and there was something on the remote corner of his vision that bothered him. Something to the left, beside a wagon. He ventured a swift glance in that direction, to discover the girl of the prairie, the girl who had called herself Lorena, standing with one hand grasping a pistol. And yet every line of her small and boyish figure seemed to reveal that she would never use the gun, that she hoped only to be unobserved. When she found that Tom was looking directly at her, her pistol sagged and dropped and the hand came upward by slow degrees until it rested against her bosom; her cheeks were bereft of their pinkness; all her features were pretematurally sharp and sober. She was rigid, like some small animal on the verge of flying for shelter if discovery came too close.

Challenge thrust upon challenge. Colonel Wyatt was shaking his grizzled locks; yet for all his determination he was quite pale. "I repeat, I will not permit you to come another step. My word as a Texan gentleman—we know nothing of your man. Not a thing! Stay back, sir!"

"I am not questioning your word, sir," replied Major Bob, more precise than ever. "I only expressed a wish to see the river. I shall see it."

"You'll do nothing of the kind. Men, see to your guns!"

"Ah," murmured Major Bob, and he turned to his own crew. "I am going to the river. The first one of them that raises weapon you will kill. After that, answer them bullet for bullet." And he rode forward.

"Take aim!" cried Wyatt, trembling visibly.

Tom moved in the saddle. "Stop it! There'll be no fight. Come back here, Dad. It's their argument."

The Major swung around. "And how is it their argument?"

"What if Big Ruddy did pull out on us? It's too small a prop to start a fight on. There's got to be more proof than that to kill men. Let it go. If it is free grass, it's their grass now."

"Is that all you have to offer, Son?"

Tom's arm raised toward the girl; and from the manner of the Major's glance it was plain he had not seen her before. Silence hung oppressively over the clearing, a silence in which Tom distinctly heard Colonel Wyatt's breath rise and fall. A stubborn man, yet made of shoddy material. As for the crews, they sat quietly—faded and weatherbeaten figures ready to fight on the spot.

The silence was at last broken by Lispenard's murmured astonishment. "My word—a beauty! A beauty out in all this desolation!"

Major Bob lifted his hat to the girl and turned his horse. Not a word, not so much as a change of a single muscle to indicate the tremendous disappointment. At his gesture the Circle G swung about and took the path back toward the valley; and it would have been a wordless withdrawal had not the girl, suddenly coming to life, sprung away from the wagon, pointed her finger at San Saba, and cried out:

"San Saba—you're a renegade cur!"

To a man, the Circle G riders whirled. Wyatt cursed his daughter. "Shut your fool mouth or I'll knock your teeth down your throat!"

"I've got no use for a traitor," said she stubbornly. "That man never did a decent thing in his life!"

San Saba sat in his saddle like a sack of meal, not meeting the girl's accusing face; a trace of colour tinged the sallow, malarial cheeks, and once he swept his own crew with what seemed to be fear. All attention was upon him, and he appeared to find it necessary to speak. So, venturing one brief look at Major Bob, he defended himself.

"I've done my duty by this outfit. Nobody's got a call to give weight to anything she might say."

"Let's go," said Tom. And again they passed down the trail. Not until they were completely out of the valley and on the ridge overlooking their own cattle did Major Bob pull himself from his profound reverie. "My heart was set on that location. I studied this country from end to end. There'll never be another like it."

San Saba tried to soften the Major's attitude. "Well, it's tough. But they's plenty more land in Dakota, suh. Just as good."

"There'll never be another piece like it," reiterated Major Bob.

The guide filled his pipe and spoke emphatically. "That be right. But since ye was beat out, foller me and I'll show'ee another spot. It ain't the same, but I reckon it'll pass muster."

"Go ahead," directed Major Bob. He had nothing more to say, either that day or the half of the next that they were on the trail. It seemed he wrestled with some bitter problem, a problem that he worried over and over in his mind, trying to reach a conclusion. Whatever the nature of his thoughts, he displayed no outward signals, but Tom made a shrewd guess, and when sunset came he drew Quagmire aside and spoke a brief phrase. Between the two of them they saw the night through, and never for a moment was San Saba beyond the range of their attention.

It was noon of the following day when the guide halted some twenty miles distant from their original destination and pointed at the rugged land ahead. "Thar she be. Water an' grass. Little Mizzoo off yonder two miles."

Major Bob no more than glanced at it. "Very well. Tom, look after things. Throw off the herd. Better ride along a piece and find a place fit to throw up cabins." Then his attention turned to San Saba and his voice filled with tremendous energy. "San Saba, come with me."

San Saba threw up his little head, the tinge of red filming across his pupils. It appeared for a moment that he meant to refuse. But in the end he nodded briefly and followed Major Bob over the ridge. Tom watched them go, stirred by an almost irresistible impulse to pursue the pair. Quagmire must have felt the same emotion, for he crowded toward Tom, muttering, "I'd never trust that gent to my back. I never would."

"No," acquiesced Tom. "But it's Dad's play right now. I can't interfere."

There were other things to do, and he beckoned Quagmire to come with him across the rolling ground on a tour of inspection. It might have been twenty minutes later when they heard the single gunshot come rolling over the ridge, and at the sound of it both their horses turned and raced northward in the direction whence it came. Quagmire shouted at the top of his voice:

"By God, I told yo' I wouldn't trust..."

"Stay back, damn you!" cried Tom. "It's my quarrel now!"

Quagmire reined in, a figure of wrath. Tom raced on up the ridge and down the farther slope. He had less than a mile to go, and he knew the answer to that shot before he slipped from the saddle and went running toward the single figure sprawled on the ground. It was his father; his father trying to hold himself up on an elbow, the blood staining his shirt front and a dimming light flickering from his deeply set eyes. At that precise moment Tom never knew what words came rioting out of his throat, but they caused Major Bob to shake his head sorrowfully.

"He's out of sight now. Never mind going after him. The world is a short and narrow trail for a murderer. I'm done. Gave him a fair break, but he played crooked. Bend down, Son..."

"Which way did he ride? Oh, by God, I'll tear his black heart out of his ribs!"

"In due time, Son. In due time. But I want your promise on that. You'll get him?"

"You've got it!"

"Well, the old flame's in you, Tom. I thought maybe the East had about killed it. Some girl took the sap out of your heart. Watched you on the trail. Wasn't the same boy I'd sent East. Don't go back there any more. Stick to your country—good country for men of our kind. We've got to have air to breathe."

He had only a few words left, and he nursed them along carefully. "Get him. Not just out of spite, Tom. But the Lord hates a traitor, and there ain't any room in the world for his kind. I gave him a fair break. The fool—I knew some of his past history, but I didn't know he was hooked up with Wyatt on this deal. He's always been a good foreman—and I'll forgive a man anything if he does his work well. Trusted him too far. Listen, my boy, it's your Circle G now..."

He stopped, peering at a sun that grew darker for him; a sun he would never see again. "Your Circle G. Good brand. I made it. Carry it on. Something tells me you'll have to fight to hold it. Never mind. Carry it on. That girl—she called the turn on San Saba. Spunky kid. Listen. When you go after San Saba, watch for a trick. Pay no attention to the gun in his holster. He carries another—in his armpit. Got me that way."

After that, the interval of silence was longer. "One of man's duties is to live so's he won't be afraid to die. I'm not afraid. But, by Godfrey, I hate to go! Takes a long time to understand it's a beautiful world. Better make Quagmire your foreman. Good man. Just give me another ten minutes..."

But the angel of death was already laying a cloak over him, leading his spirit down that infinite corridor whither all mortal creatures travel. He gripped Tom's hand, whispering out of the remote distance, "Takes a little bit of Texas blood to christen a new country. I'll—tell—your mamma..."