leg-dragging brutes and there were matters to be
arranged. Further, it was his intention to have a talk with Terry
Temple just as soon as might be.

That day Terry's automobile with shrieking horn swept on by him. He
caught a glimpse of two veils, a brown and a black; the car's top was
up. Terry appeared not to see him.

"She hasn't lost a speck of her impudence!"

He frowned after her departing car, praying in his heart for a puncture
or a stalled engine. She deserved as much for the way in which she
tooted her infernal horn. But his prayer went unanswered and his
displeasure vanished presently as he pushed on steadily in her wake,
eager to come to the end of his ride.

But he must never entirely forget the panting herd straggling on far
behind him, choking and coughing in its own dust. He must arrange
somewhere, somehow for pasturage. So he made a detour and looked in on
Brocky Lane first, then on Rod Norton. Both old friends were glad to
see him and gave him hard brown hands in grips that were good to feel.

But they merely shook their heads when he mentioned his errand. Lane
had sold a few head last week; Norton was afraid that he would have to
make a sacrifice sale himself. They would do anything that they could
but it was only too clear that they could not give him that which they
themselves did not have and could not get.

"Old man Packard," offered Norton bluntly, "is the only man I can think
of who has pasture to rent. Drop Off Valley, just up in the mountains
back of your place."

Steve laughed shortly and swung up into his saddle.

"So long, Nort," he said colorlessly "The old man would burn his grass
off before he'd let me have it."

And he rode on, two problems in his mind, both growing more difficult
as he drew nearer the home ranch. Problem One: Just what was Terry
going to say? Problem Two: How was he going to pull his stock through?

As though he did not already have enough on his hands, Bill Royce
greeted him at the home ranch-house with the significant word--

"Trouble!"

"I know it," grunted Packard, swinging down stiffly from his saddle.
"What kind this time, Bill?"

"Blenham-brand, I'd reckon," said Bill angrily. Steve noted that both
of the old hand's cheeks were flushed hotly. "Barbee telephoned in
about four hours ago. Seven steers dead, some more sick. An'," the
explanation coming quickly, "Barbee's got the hunch Blenham had rode on
ahead an' had poisoned the w