n her stirrups, "when we get to
work you pick out as near as you can, cattle that look like yours, an'
th' same amount--not a head more."

Then they swung forward at a run and swept down along the left flank
of the herd. Here a rider raised his arm and fired point blank at the
leaders. One-two-three his six-gun counted. He was a lean youngster,
scarce more than a boy, a wild admirer of Courtrey, and he stood his
defence with a sturdy gallantry that was worthy of a better cause.

"Damn you!" he yelled, standing in his stirrups, "what's this?"

"Law!" pealed the high voice of Tharon as El Rey thundered down toward
him. Then Buford, riding midway of the sweeping line, fired and the
boy dropped his gun, swayed and clung to his saddle horn as his horse
bolted and tore off at a tangent to the right, away from the herd.

"God!" cried the girl hoarsely, "I wish we didn't have to! Did you
kill him?"

"No," called Buford sharply, "broke his arm."

Tharon, to whom the high blue vault had seemed suddenly to swing in
strange circles, shut her teeth with a click.

Abreast of the cattle she swerved El Rey aside, drew her guns and
waited.

In among the grazing cattle, many of which had raised startled heads
to eye the intruders, went the men. They worked swiftly and deftly.
They knew that they were in plain sight of the Stronghold and expected
every moment to see Courtrey and a dozen riders come boiling out.
Those cowboys who had been in charge of the herd, sat where they were,
without a move. Out of the bright mass the settlers cut first the ten
head of steers, as nearly as possible all white, to take the place of
Dixon's band. Thomas and Black stood guard over them. Then they went
back and took out yellows and yellow-spotted to the number of one
hundred. It was fast work, the fastest ever done on the Lost Valley
ranges, and every nerve was strained like a singing wire.

Under the dust cloud raised by the plunging hoofs, the whirling
horses, the workers kept as close together as possible.

They rounded up the cut-outs, bunched them together compactly and
swinging into a half circle, drove them rapidly back toward the
oak-fringed edge of the Cup Rim. They passed close to where the slim
boy stood by his horse, trying to wind the big red kerchief from his
neck about his right arm from which the blood ran in a bright stream.
Tharon swung out of her course and shot toward him.

"Here," she cried swiftly, "let me tie it."

"T