s in the saddle, his long-barrelled
revolver thrust pugnaciously into his boot, his 30-30 carbine across his
arm, and his hounds slouching dutifully along in the rear. Close
behind followed Hardy, bound for the Peaks, but though the morning was
cold he had stripped off his coat and shaps, and everything which
might conceal a weapon, leaving even his polished Colt's in his
blankets. If the sheep were to be turned now it could never be by
arms. The sheepmen had stolen a march, Creede and his cowboys were far
away, and his only hope was the olive branch of peace. Yet as he
spurred up the Carrizo trail he felt helpless and abused, like a
tried soldier who is sent out unarmed by a humanitarian commander. Only
one weapon was left to him--the one which even Jim Swope had
noticed--his head; and as he worked along up the hogback which led down
from the shoulder of the Four Peaks he schooled himself to a Spartan
patience and fortitude.

At last from a high cliff which overshadowed the broad canyon of the
middle fork, he looked down and saw the sheep, like a huge,
dirty-brown blot, pouring in a hundred diverging lines down the valley
and feeding as they came. Higher and higher up the sides the old ewes
fought their way, plucking at the long spears of grass which grew
among the rocks; and the advance guard, hurrying forward, nipped
eagerly at the browse and foliage as they passed, until, at last, some
tempting bush detained them too long and they were swallowed up in
the ruck. Little paths appeared in the leaders' wake, winding in and
out among the bowlders; and like soldiers the sheep fell into line,
moving forward with the orderly precision of an army. A herder with
his dogs trailed nonchalantly along the flank, the sun glinting from
his carbine as he clambered over rocks, and in the rear another silent
shepherd followed up the drag. So far it was a peaceful pastoral
scene, but behind the herd where the camp rustler and his burros
should have been there was a posse of men, and each man carried a
gun.

Hardly had Chapuli mounted the ridge before every head was raised; the
swarthy Mexicans unslung their guns with a flourish, and held them at
a ready. Yet for half an hour the lone horseman sat there like a
statue, and if he resented their coming or saw the dust of other bands
behind, he made no sign. Even when the guard of men passed beneath
him, craning their necks uneasily, he still remained silent and
immobile, like a man who