“Yeah, that’s true. But it don’t prove that we were qualified to do it. Mebbe somebody else could ’a’ done it better.”
“Well, I’d sure like to set on a fence and watch ’em do it,” laughed Sleepy. “It would be worth havin’ a front seat at the show. Here’s that road runnin’ northeast, Hashknife.”
And Sleepy was right when he said that he would like to have a front seat at the show. For several years, he and Hashknife had drifted up and down the wide ranges, working here and there, helping to fight range battles; a pair of men who had been ordained by fate to bring peace into troubled range-lands.
It was not for gain nor glory. They usually left as abruptly as they came; dreading the thanks of those who gained by their coming; leaving only a memory of a tall, serious-faced cowpuncher with a deductive brain and a wistful smile. And of his bow-legged partner; him of the innocent blue eyes, which did not harden even in the heat of gun-battle.
They did not want wealth, power nor glory. Either of them could have been a power in the ranges, but they were of that breed of men who can’t stay still; men who must always see what is on the other side of the hill. The lure of the unknown road called them on, and when their work was done they faded out of the picture. It was their way.
Jack Hartwell was in a white-hot rage when he rode away from the Arrow. His own father had virtually accused him of being a spy for Eph King, and his life-long friends were all thinking him guilty of giving information to the invading sheepmen.
He set his jaw tightly as he spurred across the hills toward home, vowing in his heart to make them sorry that they had spurned his assistance and added insult to injury by declaring him a traitor. Once he drew rein on the crest of a hill and looked back, his throat aching from the curses that surged within him.
It was then that he realized how powerless he was, how foolish he had been to declare a dead-line around his property. It had been a childish declaration. And with this realization came the selfish hope that the sheep men might break the dead-line and flood the valley with sheep. He wanted revenge. And why not help them, he wondered?
His own father had outlawed him among cattlemen. He had been ostracized from the cowland society. He owed them nothing. Perhaps Eph King would welcome him into Sunshine Basin. He might even make him a sheep baron. But the vision did not taste sweet to Jack. He had the cattlemen’s inborn hatred of sheep. He had heard them cursed all his life, and it was too late for him to change his attitude toward them.
He rode in at his little corral and put up his horse. There was no light in the house, but the door was unlocked. He went in and lighted the lamp. It was not late, and he wondered why Molly had gone to bed so early. He picked up the light and entered the bedroom, only to find it vacant, the bed unruffled.