off up the canyon,
where the hold-up herd was bellowing and there was a man's work to do.
There was wild riding that day, such as Judge Ware and Lucy had never
seen before, and more than one outlaw, loping for the hills, was roped
and thrown, and then lashed back to his place in the herd. The
sensitive spirit of Chapuli responded like a twin being to the sudden
madness of his master, and the lagging _rodeo_ hands were galvanized
into action by his impetuous ardor. And at the end, when the roping
and branding were over, Hardy rode down to the pasture for a fresh
mount, his eyes still burning with a feverish light and his lips
close-drawn and silent.

The outfit was huddled about the fire eating greedily after the long
day, when Creede, furtively watching his partner, saw his eyes fixed
curiously upon some object in the outer darkness. He followed the
glance and beheld a hound--gaunt, lame, beseeching--limping about
among the mesquite trees which lined the edge of the flat.

"There's one of Bill's dogs," he remarked sociably, speaking to the
crowd in general. "Must've got sore-footed and come back. Here, Rock!
Here, Rye! Here, Ring!" he called, trying the most likely names.
"Here, puppy--come on, boy!" And he scraped a plate in that inviting
way which is supposed to suggest feed to a dog. But Hardy rose up
quietly from his place and went out to the dog. A moment later he
called to Jeff and, after a hurried conference, the two of them
brought the wanderer up to the fire.

"Hey!" called Bill Lightfoot, "that ain't one of Bill's pack--that's
old Turco, his home dog."

"Don't you think I know Bill's dogs yet?" inquired Creede scathingly.
"Now if you'll jest kindly keep your face shet a minute, I'll see
what's the matter with this leg."

He clamped Turco between his knees and picked up his fore leg, while
the old dog whined and licked his hands anxiously. There was a stain
of blood from the shoulder down, and above it, cut neatly through the
muscles, a gaping wound.

"That was a thirty-thirty," said Creede grimly, and every man looked
up. Thirty-thirty was a sinister number on the range--it was the
calibre of a sheep-herder's carbine.

"Aw, go on," scoffed Bill Lightfoot, rushing over to examine the
wound. "Who could have shot him--away over in Hell's Hip Pocket?"

"Um--that's it," observed Creede significantly. "What you goin' to do,
Rufe?"

"I'm going over there," answered Hardy, throwing the saddle on his
horse