back, lolled in their saddles, shouting conversation to each other,
relaxing after the day's work; through the clouds strong shafts of
light belittled the living creatures, threw into proportion the
vastness of the desert.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A CORNER IN HORSES

It was dark night. The stay-herd bellowed frantically from one of the
big corrals; the cow-and-calf-herd from a second. Already the remuda,
driven in from the open plains, scattered about the thousand acres of
pasture. Away from the conveniences of fence and corral, men would
have had to patrol all night. Now, however, everyone was gathered
about the camp fire.

Probably forty cowboys were in the group, representing all types, from
old John, who had been in the business forty years, and had punched
from the Rio Grande to the Pacific, to the Kid, who would have given
his chance of salvation if he could have been taken for ten years older
than he was. At the moment Jed Parker was holding forth to his friend
Johnny Stone in reference to another old crony who had that evening
joined the round-up.

"Johnny," inquired Jed with elaborate gravity, and entirely ignoring
the presence of the subject of conversation, "what is that thing just
beyond the fire, and where did it come from?"

Johnny Stone squinted to make sure.

"That?" he replied. "Oh, this evenin' the dogs see something run down
a hole, and they dug it out, and that's what they got."

The newcomer grinned.

"The trouble with you fellows," he proffered "is that you're so plumb
alkalied you don't know the real thing when you see it."

"That's right," supplemented Windy Bill drily. "HE come from New York."

"No!" cried Jed. "You don't say so? Did he come in one box or in two?"

Under cover of the laugh, the newcomer made a raid on the dutch ovens
and pails. Having filled his plate, he squatted on his heels and fell
to his belated meal. He was a tall, slab-sided individual, with a
lean, leathery face, a sweeping white moustache, and a grave and
sardonic eye. His leather chaps were plain and worn, and his hat had
been fashioned by time and wear into much individuality. I was not
surprised to hear him nicknamed Sacatone Bill.

"Just ask him how he got that game foot," suggested Johnny Stone to me
in an undertone, so, of course, I did not.

Later someone told me that the lameness resulted from his refusal of an
urgent invitation to return across a river. Mr. Sacatone Bill happened
not