cloud of dust arose from among the chaparral and oaks,
drifting slowly but certainly toward the Ranges. Bob could now make out
the bawling, shouting, lowing of great herds on the march. In spite of
pledges and promises, in spite of California John's reports, of Thorne's
recommendations, of Plant's assurances, Simeon Wright's cattle were
again coming in!

Bob shook his head sadly, and his clear-cut young face was grave. No one
knew better than himself what this must mean to the mountain people,
for his late spring and early fall work had brought him much in contact
with them. He walked thoughtfully down the hill.

When just on the outskirts of the little village he was overtaken by
George Pollock on horseback. The mountaineer was jogging along at a foot
pace, his spurs jingling, his bridle hand high after the Western
fashion. When he saw Bob he reined in, nodding a good morning. Bob
noticed that he had strapped on a blanket and slicker, and wore his
six-shooter.

"You look as though you were going on a journey," remarked Bob.

"Thinking of it," said Pollock. Bob glanced up quickly at the tone of
his voice, which somehow grated unusually on the young man's ear, but
the mountaineer's face was placid under the brim of his floppy old hat.
"Might as well," continued the cattleman after a moment. "Nothin'
special to keep me."

"I'm glad Mrs. Pollock is better," ventured Bob.

"She's dead," stated Pollock without emotion. "Died this morning about
two o'clock."

Bob cried out at the utterly unexpected shock of this statement. Pollock
looked down on him as though from a great height.

"I sort of expected it," he answered Bob's exclamation. "I reckon we
won't talk of it. 'Spose you see that Wright's cattle is coming in
again? I'm sorry on account of Jim and the other boys. It wipes me out,
of course, but it don't matter as far as I'm concerned, because I'm
going away, anyway."

Bob laid his hand on the man's stirrup leather and walked alongside,
thinking rapidly. He did not know how to take hold of the situation.

"Where are you thinking of going?" he asked.

Pollock looked down at him.

"What's that to you?" he demanded roughly.

"Why--nothing--I was simply interested," gasped Bob in astonishment.

The mountaineer's eyes bored him through and through. Finally the man
dropped his gaze.

"I'll tell you," said he at last, "'cause you and Jim are the only
square ones I know. I'm going to Mexico. I never been there.