I tell you, Rufe," he added, "it's jest as well I'm
goin'--one man can tell 'em to he'p themselves as good as two, and I
might get excited. You know your orders--and I reckon the sheepmen do,
too, 's fer 's that goes. They're not so slow, if they do git lousy.
But my God, boy, it hurts my feelin's to think of you all alone up
here, tryin' to appeal to Jasp Swope's better nature." He twisted his
lips, and shrugged his huge shoulders contemptuously. Then without
enthusiasm he said: "Well, good luck," and rode away after his
cattle.

Creede's scorn for this new policy of peace had never been hidden,
although even in his worst cursing spells he had never quite named the
boss. But those same orders, if they ever became known, would call in
the rapacious sheepmen like vultures to a feast, and the bones of his
cattle--that last sorry remnant of his father's herds--would bleach on
Bronco Mesa with the rest, a mute tribute to the triumph of sheep.

All that day Hardy rode up the Alamo until he stood upon the summit of
the Juate and looked over the divide to the north, and still there
were no sheep. Not a smoke, not a dust streak, although the chill of
Autumn was in the air. In the distant Sierra Blancas the snow was
already on the peaks and the frosts lay heavy upon the black mesa of
the Mogollons. Where then could the sheep be, the tender, gently
nurtured sheep, which could stand neither heat in Summer nor cold in
Winter, but must always travel, travel, feeding upon the freshest of
green grass and leaving a desert in their wake? The slow-witted
Mexicans and Basques, who did not follow the lead of the Swopes, had
returned on their fall migration with the regularity of animals, but
all those cheery herders for whom he had cooked and slaved--Bazan,
McDonald, the Swopes and their kin, who used the upper ford--were lost
as if the earth had swallowed them up.

The stars were shining when Hardy came in sight of the ranch at the
end of that unprofitable day, and he was tired. The low roof of the
house rose up gloomily before him, but while he was riding in a hound
suddenly raised his challenge in the darkness. Instantly his yell was
answered by a chorus, and as Chapuli swerved from the rush of the pack
the door was thrown open and the tall, gaunt form of Bill Johnson
stood outlined against the light.

"Yea, Ribs; hey, Rock; down, Ring!" he hollered. "Hey, boys; hey,
Suke!" And in a mighty chorus of bayings the long-eared hounds cir