has councils of his own or leads a force
behind.

The leader of the vanguard of the sheep was a white man, and not
unversed in the principles of war, for after trailing safely through
the box of the canyon--where a single rock displaced would kill a score
of sheep, and where the lone horseman had he so willed could have
potted half of the invaders from the heights--he turned his herd up a
side canyon to the west and hastily pitched his camp on a ridge. As the
heat of the day came on, the other bands up the canyon stopped also,
and when the faint smoke showed Hardy that the camp rustlers were
cooking dinner, he turned and rode for the leader's camp.

Dinner was already served--beans, fried mutton, and bread, spread upon
a greasy canvas--and the hungry herders were shovelling it down with
knives in their own primitive way when Hardy rode up the slope. As he
came into camp the Chihuahuanos dropped their plates, reached for
their guns, and stood in awkward postures of defence, some wagging
their big heads in a braggartly defiance, others, their courage
waning, grinning in the natural shame of the peasant. In Hardy they
recognized a gentleman of _categoria_--and he never so much as glanced
at them as he reined in his spirited horse. His eyes were fixed upon
the lone white man, their commander, who stood by the fire regarding
him with cold suspicion, and to whom he bowed distantly.

"Good-morning," he said, by way of introduction, and the sheepman
blinked his eyes in reply.

"Whose sheep are those?" continued Hardy, coming to the point with
masterful directness, and once more the boss sheepman surveyed him
with suspicion.

[Illustration: "Put up them guns, you gawky fools! This man ain't going
to eat ye!"]

"Mine," he said, and Hardy returned his stare with a glance which,
while decorously veiled, indicated that he knew he lied. The man was a
stranger to him, rather tall and slender, with drawn lips and an eye
that never wavered. His voice was tense with excitement and he kept
his right thumb hooked carelessly into the corner of his pocket, not
far from the grip of a revolver. As soon as he spoke Hardy knew him.

"You are Mr. Thomas, aren't you?" he inquired, as if he had no thought
of trouble. "I believe I met you once, down in Moroni."

"Ump!" grunted Mr. Thomas unsociably, and at that moment one of the
Mexicans, out of awkwardness, dropped his gun. As he stooped to pick
it up a slow smile crept over the cowman's