ne-handed. He was playing an air that he had dedicated
to Sandy. Vaguely it comforted her.

"They're _good_," she said to Grit. "An' they've figgered out something
or they w'udn't be actin' thataway. You an' me got to be game."

Sandy smoked his cigarette and Mormon lolled in his chair, while Sam
breathed out his melody into the night that was very still and very
quiet, with the great white stars burning rayless. The tune swelled
triumphantly.

Behold El Capitan,
Notice his misanthropic stare,
Look at his independent air;
And match him if you can,
He is the champion beyond compare.

It was a tribute to the strategy of Sandy Bourke, the D'Artagnan of the
Three Musketeers of the Range, whereof Mormon was surely Porthos, if Sam
was hard to recognize as Aramis. "One for all and all for one" was their
motto, and neither Mormon nor Sam doubted for an instant that Sandy
would win. Sandy, smoking cigarette after cigarette, was not so sure but
equally complacent.

Next morning, breakfast over before the sun was well above the peaks,
while desert birds were still rising, twittering shrill welcome to the
dawn, Sandy went about humming snatches of cowboy songs just above his
breath as he oversaw the arrangements for the exodus that was to be; not
so much a flight, as a deliberately calculated laying of a trail for the
pursuit. So might an old dog fox, sure of his speed and wisdom, trot
leisurely across a field in full sight of the pack. Sandy had no
intention of waiting until the lawhounds arrived, he needed a start
against the handicap of high-powered cars. He was in high humor as the
buckboard was greased, a team of buckskins given a special feed and a
rub-down, and various articles gathered for transportation. Among these
were a spool of barbed wire and a dozen fence posts.

"I'm a rollickin', rovin' son of a gun
Of a roamin' gambolier;"

sang Sandy, lights dancing in his gray eyes. Sandy was not old--a little
short of thirty--but he was generally mature, suggesting deliberation of
mind if not of action. This morning youth was his, rollicking,
devil-may-care youth that showed in his walk, the set of his shoulders,
his smile.

His spirit was infectious. Four riders, jumping to his orders, tossed
badinage among one another like a ball. Mormon and Sam, seated on the
top rail of the corral fence, openly admired their partner.

"Like old times, Mormon?" suggested Sam.

"Sure is. I reckon