yellow dog dashed
away again, with Tommy at his heels.

Creede was the first man to regain his nerve and, seeing his pet
triumphant, he let out a whoop of derisive laughter.

"Ah-hah-hah!" he hollered, pointing with his pistol hand, "look at
that, will ye--_look_ at 'im--_yee-pah_--go after 'im, Tommy--we'll
show the--"

The fighting blood of the sheepman sided in as quickly with his dog.

"I'll kill that dam' cat!" he yelled, swinging down from his saddle,
"if you don't let up! Hey, Nip! Sick 'im!" He turned and motioned to
his other dog, which had been standing dumbly by, and instantly he
joined in the chase. "Sick 'em, boy, _sick 'em_!" he bellowed, urging
him on, and before Creede could get his face straight the long, rangy
brindle had dashed up from behind and seized Tommy by the back.

"Git out o' that!" thundered the cowman; and then, without waiting on
words, he threw his gun down on the dog and fired.

"Here--none of that, now!" shouted Swope, whipping out his own pistol,
and as he leapt forward he held it out before him like a sabre,
pointed straight for the cowman's ribs. His intentions may have been
of the best, but Hardy did not wait to see. The brindle dog let out a
surprised yelp and dropped. Before Creede could turn to meet his enemy
his partner leapt in between them and with a swift blow from the
shoulder, struck the sheepman to the ground.

It was a fearful blow, such as men deal in anger without measuring
their strength or the cost, and it landed on his jaw. Creede had seen
men slugged before, in saloon rows and the rough fights that take
place around a town, but never had he seen a single blow suffice--the
man's head go back, his knees weaken, and his whole body collapse as
if he had been shot. If he had been felled like a bull in the shambles
that goes down in spite of his great strength, Jasper Swope could not
have been more completely stunned. He lay sprawling, his legs turned
under him, and the hand that grasped the six-shooter relaxed slowly
and tumbled it into the dust.

For a minute the two partners stood staring at each other, the one
still planted firmly on his feet like a boxer, the other with his
smoking pistol in his hand.

"By Joe, boy," said Creede slowly, "you was just in time that trip."
He stepped forward and laid the fallen man out on his back, passing
his gun up to Hardy as he did so.

"I wonder if you killed him," he muttered, feeling Jasp's bull neck;
and then, as Ha