he
doorway smoking, and the messenger asleep on the ground, his head on
his saddle.

"Here's your horse," said Brevoort, "and some chuck."

Harper sat up quickly, too quickly for a man who had ridden as far as
he had. Pete wondered at the other's hardihood and grit, for Harper
was instantly on his feet and saddling the fresh horse, and
incidentally cursing the Olla, Brent, and the universe in general, with
a gusto which bespoke plenty of unspoiled vigor.

"Tell Brent the coast is clear," said Brevoort as Harper mounted.

They could hear his horse getting into his stride long before the sound
of his hoofbeats was swallowed up in the abyss of the night.

Pete turned in. Brevoort rode out to drift along the line fence until
daylight.

And Pete dreamed strange dreams of night-riders who came and went
swiftly and mysteriously; and of a dusty, shuffling herd that wound its
slow way across the desert, hazed by a flitting band of armed riders
who continually glanced back as though fearful of pursuit. Suddenly
the dream changed. He was lying on a bed in a long, white-walled room,
dimly lighted by a flickering gas-jet, and Boca stood beside him gazing
down at him wistfully. He tried to speak to her, but could not. Nor
did she speak to him, but laid her hand on his forehead, pressing down
his eyelids. Her hand was dry and hot. Pete tried to open his
eyes--to raise his hand, to speak. Although his eyes were closed and
Boca's hot hand was pressed down on them, Pete knew that round-about
was a light and warmth of noonday . . . Boca's hand drew back--and
Pete lay staring straight into the morning sun which shone through the
open doorway. In the distance he could see Brevoort riding slowly
toward him. Pete raised on his elbow and threw back the blankets. As
he rose and pulled on his overalls he thought of the messenger. He
knew that somewhere back on the northern trail the men of the Olla were
pushing a herd of cattle slowly south,--cattle from the T-Bar-T, the
Blue, and . . . he suddenly recalled Harper's remark--"And countin' the
Concho stuff . . ." Pete thought of Jim Bailey and Andy White, and of
pleasant days riding for the Concho. But after all, it was none of his
affair. He had had no hand in stealing the cattle. He would do well
enough to keep his own hide whole. Let the cattlemen who lived under
the law take care of their own stock and themselves. And curiously
enough, Pete for the first time wondere