t looking downstream as the
horse drank. Just as he drew rein, the old herder imitated with
perfect intonation the quavering bleat of a lamb calling to its mother.
Fadeaway jerked straight in the saddle. A ball of smoke puffed from
the cottonwoods. The cowboy doubled up and slid headforemost into the
stream. The horse, startled by the lunge of its rider, leaped to the
bank and raced up the trail. A diminishing echo ran along the canon
walls and rolled away to distant, faint muttering. Old Fernando had
paid his debt of vengeance.

Leisurely he broke a twig from the cottonwoods, tore a strip from his
bandanna, and cleaned his gun. Then he retraced his steps to the
burro, mounted, and rode directly to his camp. After he had eaten he
told his son to pack their few belongings. Then he again mounted the
burro and rode toward the hacienda to face the fury of the patron.

He had for a moment left the flock in charge of his son. He had
returned to find all but a few of the sheep gone. He had tracked them
to the canon brink. Ah! could the patron have seen them, lying mangled
upon the rocks! It had been a long hard climb to the bottom of the
canon, else he should have reported sooner. Some one had driven the
sheep into the chasm. As to the man who did it, he knew nothing.
There were tracks of a horse--that was all. He had come to report and
receive his dismissal. Never again should he see the Senora Loring.
He had been the patron's faithful servant for many years. He was
disgraced, and would be dismissed for negligence.

So he soliloquized as he rode, yet he was not altogether unhappy. He
had avenged insult and the killing of his beloved sheep with one little
crook of his finger; a thing that his patron, brave as he was, would
not dare do. He would return to New Mexico. It was well!

CHAPTER XV

THEY KILLED THE BOSS!

Sundown, much to his dismay, was lost. With a sack of salt tied across
his saddle, he had ridden out that morning to fill one of the salt-logs
near a spring where the cattle came to drink. He had found the log,
filled it, and had turned to retrace his journey when a flock of wild
turkeys strung out across his course. His horse, from which the riders
of the Concho had aforetime shot turkeys, broke into a kind of
reminiscent lope, which quickened as the turkeys wheeled and ran
swiftly through the timberland. Sundown clung to the saddle-horn as
the pony took fallen logs at top speed