Sundown paused for lack of breath.

"Law? Mebby you think you got somethin' to say about this here
water-hole, and mebby not," said Loring. "Don't get het up. I come to
this country before you knew it was here. And for law--I reckon seein'
you're wanted by the law that them papers of yourn is good for startin'
a fire--and nothin' more. The _law_ says that no man wanted by the law
kin homestead. The water-hole is open to the fust man that wants it
and I'm the fust. Now mebby you can think that over and cool off."

Sundown was taken aback. Though unversed in the intricacies of the
law, he was sensible enough to realize that Loring was right. Yet he
held tenaciously to his attitude of proprietor of the water-hole. It
was his home--the only home that he had known in his variegated career.
The fact that he was not guilty buoyed him up, however. He decided
that discretion had its uses. As his first anger evaporated, he cast
about for a plan whereby to notify Corliss of the invasion of the
water-hole ranch. His glance wandered to Chance.

Then he raised his eyes. "Well, now the fireworks is burned down, what
you goin' to do?"

Loring gestured toward the house. "That's my business. But you can
turn in and cook grub for the men. That'll keep you from thinkin' too
hard, and we're like to be busy."

"Then you're takin' me prisoner?" queried Sundown.

"That's correc'."

"How about the law of that?"

"This outfit's makin' its own laws these days," said Loring.

And so far as Loring was concerned that ended the argument. Not so,
however, with Sundown. He said nothing. Had Loring known him better,
that fact would have caused him to suspect his prisoner. With evident
meekness the tall one entered the house and gazed with disconsolate
eyes at the piled kyacks of provisions, the tarpaulins and sheepskins.
His citadel of dreams had been rudely invaded, in truth. He was not so
much angered by the possible effects of the invasion as by the fact.
Gentle Annie was lowing plaintively. The chickens were scurrying about
the yard, cackling hysterically as they dodged this and that herder.
The two pigs, Sundown reflected consolingly, seemed happy enough.
Loring, standing in the doorway, pointed to the stove. "Get busy," he
said tersely. That was the last straw. Silently Sundown stalked to
the stove, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work. If there were not
a score of mighty sick herders that night, it would no