them on the abrasions, held them there for the warmth of his palm to set
them. Grit licked at his hands whenever they were in reach, his
brightening eyes full of understanding, shifting to watch Sam striding
to the corral.

"One thing about a sheepman is allus good," said Mormon. "His dawg.
Reckon you aim on me tendin' the ranch, Sandy?"

"Come if you want to."

"Two's plenty, I reckon. I do more ridin' through the week than I care
for nowadays. I'll stick to the chair."

"Prod up Pedro to git some hot water ready. Keep a kittle b'ilin'. No
tellin' what time we'll git back," said Sandy. "I'll take along some
grub an' the medicine kit. Have to spare some of that whisky Sam's got
stowed away."

"Goin' to waste booze at fifteen bucks a quart on a sheepman?" grumbled
Mormon.

"Not if you an' Sam don't want I should," replied Sandy, with a smile.
He knew his partners. "Now then, Grit," he went on to the dog in a
confidential tone, "you-all have got to git grub an' wateh inside yore
ribs. Savvy? I'm goin' to rustle some hash fo' you. You stay as you are,
son."

He pressed the dog on its side once more, in the shade, and went into
the house. Mormon followed him. Grit watched them disappear, gave a
little whine of impatience, accepted the situation philosophically as he
listened to sounds from the corral that told him of horses being caught,
and drooped his head on the dirt, lying relaxed, eyes closed, gaining
strength against the return trip.

Sam rode to the porch on his roan, Sandy's pinto and a gray mare
leading, and "tied them to the ground" with trailing reins as Sandy came
out bearing a pan of food, a package and a leather case. Mormon showed
at the door.

"Where'd you hide yore bottle, Sam?" he asked.

"Where you can't find it, you holler-legged galoot. Why?"

"Fill up a flask to take along, Sam," said Sandy. "Here, Grit, climb
outside of this chuck."

He coaxed the collie to eat the food from his hand while Sam brought the
whisky.

"Load my guns, Mormon," he requested.

Mormon did it without comment. The two blued Colts were as much a part
of Sandy's working outfit as his belt, or the bridle of his horse. Sam
buckled on his own cartridge belt, holster and pistol, fixed his spurs,
tied the package of food to his saddle, filled two canteens and did the
same with them. Sandy-offered the pan of water to Grit who drank in
businesslike fashion, assured of the success of his mission. He stood up
squarely