A black blot arose hastily from the earth and became a cow. Two more near it also arose, and the three lumbered off clumsily, driven in the right direction by a horse that knew her work. It was her firm belief that cows had been put on earth to be bossed by her, and no matter how quickly they swerved she was always at the right place at the right time and kept them going as her master wished. She neither hurried them too fast nor pressed them too closely, for she knew that when a range cow is pushed too hard it is likely to go "on the prod" and change instantly from an easy-going, docile victim to a stubborn, vicious quadruped with no sense whatever and a strong yearning to use its horns.
It did not take long to get six cows to the edge of the Deepwater; but it took two hours of careful but hard riding, perseverance and profuse profanity to get them into the water. It was no one-man job, and with a horse that had less training than Pepper it might have proved to be an impossibility; but at last one cow preferred the water to being made a fool of, and when it went in the others reluctantly followed. Scrambling out on the farther bank they doubtless were congratulating themselves upon having escaped a pest, when the pest itself emerged behind them and drove them slowly but steadily toward Little Canyon. In it they went, and up it; and as they paused on the main trail to determine which way to go, the pest arrived and decided the question for them, drove them across it and into a small valley; and as day broke, six unhurried, placid cows wandered slowly into the crooked canyon and through the opening in the fence.
Having changed the brands from the original CL to an equally sprawling GB, he returned to the cabin, unsaddled, and entered, stepping high over the sill. No one was there and nothing had been disturbed, but when he looked for the thread he found it snapped and lying on the floor.
Starting a brisk fire he hung his wet clothes before it on crude tripods made of sticks, hastily ate a substantial breakfast, fastened the shutter of the window, hung the gold pan over the closed door to serve as an alarm if anyone should enter, and in a few minutes was asleep.
Across the creek, high up on the great ridge, a man lay behind a bowlder, a rifle in his hands, and he kept close watch on the cabin. Waiting a reasonable length of time, he finally arose, waved his hand and settled down again, the rifle covering the cabin door. In the pasture another man emerged from a thicket and hurried toward the canyon, swearing softly when he saw the changed brands. It took no second sight to tell him what the original brand had been. Emerging from the canyon he paused, glanced up at his friend, who made a significant sign, debated something in his mind, and then, pulling out a notebook, scrawled something in it and tore out the page. Creeping softly he reached the cabin door, stuck the page on it and then hurried away to join his friend. They climbed the ridge and hastened northward, conversing with animation.
When they reached the canyon leading to their ranch a tall, rangy man advanced to meet them. "Well," he said, smiling: "what did you find out about the rope? An' what kept you so long?"
"We found out a-plenty," growled Ackerman angrily. "That feller ain't no prospector. I've said so all along. He don't know enough about prospectin' to earn a livin' on th' top of a pile of gold!"
His companion nodded quickly. "Jim's right; he's a rustler. Doin' it single-handed, on a small scale."
"I ain't nowise shore that rustlin' is his game, neither," said Ackerman. "If he is he's a new hand at it. I could rebrand them cows in just about half th' time it took him, an' do a better job. He's dangerous; an' he should 'a' been shot long before this. I can get him today," he urged.