nco Mesa, following with unerring instinct the trail of the Dos S
horses, balking their wild breaks for freedom and rushing them
headlong into the fenced pasture across the creek. As the hired hands
of the Dos S outfit caught up their mounts and endeavored to put the
fear of God into their hearts, the mountain boys got out the keg of
horseshoes and began to shoe--every man his own blacksmith.

It was rough work, all around, whether blinding and topping off the
half-wild ponies or throwing them and tacking cold-wrought "cowboy"
shoes to their flint-like feet, and more than one enthusiast came away
limping or picking the loose skin from a bruised hand. Yet through it
all the dominant note of dare-devil hilarity never failed. The
solitude of the ranch, long endured, had left its ugly mark on all of
them. They were starved for company and excitement; obsessed by
strange ideas which they had evolved out of the tumuli of their past
experience and clung to with dogged tenacity; warped with egotism;
stubborn, boastful, or silent, as their humor took them, but now all
eager to break the shell and mingle in the rush of life.

In this riot of individuals Jefferson Creede, the round-up boss,
strode about like a king, untrammelled and unafraid. There was not a
ridge or valley in all the Four Peaks country that he did not know,
yet it was not for this that he was boss; there was not a virtue or
weakness in all that crowd that he was not cognizant of, in the back
of his scheming brain. The men that could rope, the men that could
ride, the quitters, the blowhards, the rattleheads, the lazy, the
crooked, the slow-witted--all were on his map of the country; and as,
when he rode the ridges, he memorized each gulch and tree and odd
rock, so about camp he tried out his puppets, one by one, to keep his
map complete.

As they gathered about the fire that evening it was Bill Lightfoot who
engaged his portentous interest. He listened to Bill's boastful
remarks critically, cocking his head to one side and smiling whenever
he mentioned his horse.

"Yes, sir," asserted Bill belligerently, "I mean it--that gray of mine
can skin anything in the country, for a hundred yards or a mile. I've
got money that says so!"

"Aw, bull!" exclaimed Creede scornfully.

"Bull, nothin'," retorted Lightfoot hotly. "I bet ye--I bet ye a
thousand dollars they ain't a horse in Arizona that can keep out of my
dust for a quarter!"

"Well, I know you ain't got no