"We'll ride back and have a talk with Loring," said Corliss. "Some one put a band of his sheep into the cañon, not two hours ago. Maybe you know something about it."
"Me? What you dreaming anyhow?"
"I'm not. It looks like your work."
"So you're tryin' to hang somethin' onto me, eh? Well, you want to call around early—you're late."
"No, I'm the first one on the job. Did you stampede Loring's sheep?"
"Did I stampede the love-makin'?" sneered Fadeaway.
Corliss shortened rein and drew close to the cowboy.
"Just explain that," he said.
"Oh, I don' know. You the boss of creation?"
Corliss's lips hardened. He let his quirt slip butt-first through his hand and grasped the lash. Fadeaway's hand slipped to his holster. Before he could pull his gun, Corliss swung the quirt. The blow caught Fadeaway just below the brim of his hat. He wavered and grabbed at the saddle-horn. As Corliss again swung his quirt, the cowboy jerked out his gun and brought it down on the rancher's head. Corliss dropped from the saddle. Fadeaway rode around and covered him. Corliss's hat lay a few feet from where he had fallen. Beneath his head a dark ooze spread a hand's-breadth on the trail. The cowboy dismounted and bent over him. "He's sportin' a dam' good hat," he said, "or that would 'a' fixed him. Guess he'll be good for a spell." Then he reached for his stirrup, mounted, and loped up the trail.