s, and he had walked a circling mile before he found himself
again at the camp confines. It was here, at the back of the mule drove,
that he became once more an onlooker; this time a thoroughly mystified
one.

The little drama, at which the Forestry expert was the single spectator,
was chiefly pantomimic, but it lacked nothing in eloquent action. Flat
upon the ground, and almost among the legs of the grazing mules, lay a
diminutive figure, face down, digging fingers and toes into the hoof-cut
earth, and sobbing out a strange jargon of oaths and childish ragings.
Before Bigelow could speak, the figure rose to its knees, its face
disfigured with passion, and its small fists clenching themselves at the
invisible. It was Dick Carson; and the words which Bigelow heard seemed
to be shaken by some unseen force out of the thin, stoop-shouldered
little body: "Oh, my Lordy! ef it could on'y be somebody else! But ther'
ain't nobody else; an' I'll go to hell if I don't do it!"

Now, at all events, Bigelow would have cut in, but the action of the
drama was too quick for him. Like a flash the water-boy disappeared
among the legs of the grazing animals; and a few minutes afterward the
night gave back the sound of galloping hoofs racing away to the
eastward.

Bigelow marked the direction of the water-boy's flight. Since it was
toward the valley head and Castle 'Cadia, he guessed that young Carson's
errand concerned itself in some way with the sheriff's raid upon the
Craigmiles ranch outfit. Here, however, conjecture tripped itself and
fell down. Both parties in whatever conflict the sheriff's visit might
provoke were the boy's natural enemies.

Bigelow was wrestling with this fresh bit of mystery when he went to
find his bunk in the commissary; it got into his dreams and was still
present when the early morning call of the camp was sounded. But neither
at the candle-lighted breakfast, nor later, when Ballard asked him if he
were fit for a leisurely ride to the southern watershed for the day's
outwearing, did he speak of young Carson's desertion.

Fitzpatrick spoke of it, though, when the chief and his companion were
mounting for the watershed ride.

"You brought my water-boy back with you last night, didn't you, Mr.
Ballard?" he asked.

"Certainly; he came in with us. Why? Have you lost him?"

"Him and one of the saddle broncos. And I don't much like the look of
it."

"Oh, I guess he'll turn up all right," said Ballard easil