“Oh, certainly,” says Pettingill. “We’re prepared for the worst. I am anxious to get first-hand information on the subject. Professor Middleton and myself are never content to take hearsay evidence for any weighty subject.”
Being as we ain’t never seen the sheep ourselves, we has to trust to luck. We leads them pelicans to the top of a tall butte, and from there we gets a glimpse of the herd. Several hundred are feeding on the other side of a little creek, which we deciphers to be Mesquite Creek.
“Now, what—er—procedure do we adopt?” asks Pettingill.
“Say that again,” says Dirty. “I missed it a foot.”
“What are we supposed to do in a case of this kind?”
“Oh ——!” says Dirty, and then he cranes his neck. “Look what’s going on down there!”
We sees four punchers riding toward them sheep, sort of swinging around to get between them and the creek. They bunches the whole works, and proceeds to drift ’em over the hill. I recognizes one of ’em as Sandy Sorensen, on the roan, so I reckon it got home all right.
“Exactly,” nods Pettingill, wiping his glasses. “No doubt everything is all right, but just why are those men taking away our sheep?”
“Gents,” says Dirty, rolling a smoke, “you have witnessed the theft of a few hundred sheep. With your own eyes you have seen part of your herd swiped by outlaws. It is a common occurrence hereabouts.”
“Do you mean that we have been robbed in the broad light of day?” asks Pettingill, shocked-like. “You do? Well, I am amazed!”