"You go to hell, Scott!" grunted Douglas.
Scott sat up with a jerk. Charleton spoke sharply. "No scrapping! You two get to sleep!"
Scott lay down reluctantly. Doug shrugged his broad shoulders, and shortly, head in his saddle, feet to the fire, he was fast asleep.
The trees were black against gray light when Charleton called the two young riders.
"Let's eat and be off," he said briefly.
Breakfast was a short affair of bread, bacon and coffee. While they were bolting it, Charleton outlined the campaign.
"You'll see Nelson's cattle have been all through here. No one else grazes hereabouts. Don't rope any cows with calves following 'em. They make too much bellowing. Get what steers you can by mid-morning into the old corral. There isn't one chance in a thousand we'll meet any one. Nelson's making hay five miles below here. But if any one should come along when you've roped a steer, get him to examine the brand for you, and of course if the brand isn't yours, let the critter go."
"Where is the old corral from here?" asked Scott.
"Show him, Doug," ordered Charleton.
The camp had been made just within the tree line below the peak. Above, against the glowing pink of the heavens, was etched the suave line of the peak and topping this a heap of rocks, surmounted by a staff. West of the staff and below it projected the top of a dead spruce on which sat an eagle. To this Douglas pointed.