"No. But we'll leave it that way till I see you again. Write in if you need me--and take care of yourself. When you get ready to settle down, I'll turn over your share of the Concho to you. So long, Will."

Will Corliss watched his brother drive away. When the team had disappeared up the road he walked down the street to the sheriff's office. The sheriff greeted him cordially.

"I came for that money, Jim."

"Sure! Here you are," and the sheriff handed him a five-dollar gold-piece.

"Quit kidding and come across," said Corliss, ignoring the significance of the allowance.

"Can't, Will. John said to give you five any time you wanted it, but only five a day."

"He did, eh? John's getting mighty close in his old age, ain't he?"

"Mebby. I don't know."

"How much did he leave for me?"

"Five a day, as I said."

"Oh, you go to h.e.l.l!"

The sheriff smiled pleasantly. "Nope, Billy! I'm goin' to stay right to home. Have a cigar?"

The young man refused the proffered cigar, picked up the gold-piece and strolled out.

The sheriff leaned back in his chair. "Well if Billy feels that way toward folks, reckon he won't get far with John, or anybody else. Too dinged bad. He used to be a good kid."

CHAPTER VII

FADEAWAY'S HAND

Fadeaway, one of the Concho riders, urged his cayuse through the ford, reined short, and turned to watch Chance, who accompanied him. The dog drew back from the edge of the stream and bunching himself, shot up and over the muddy water, nor did the jump break his stride as he leaped to overtake the rider, who had spurred out of his way. Fadeaway cursed joyously and put his pony to a lope. Stride for stride Chance ran beside him. The cowboy, swaying easily, turned and looked down upon the dog. Chance was enjoying himself. "Wonder how fast the cuss _can_ run?" And Fadeaway swung his quirt. The stride quickened to the rhythmic beat of the cow-horse at top speed. The dog kept abreast without apparent effort. A half-mile beyond the ford the pace slackened as the pony took the hill across which the trail led to the open mesas. As they topped the rise Fadeaway again urged his cayuse to a run, for the puncher had enjoyed the hospitality of his companions of "The Blue," a distant cattle ranch, a day longer than had been set for his return to the Concho. Just then a startled jack rabbit leaped up and bounced down the trail ahead of them. Fadeaway jerked his horse to a stop. "Now we'll see some real speed!" he said. There was a flash of the dog's long body, which grew smaller and smaller in the distance; then a puff of dust spurted up. Fadeaway saw the dog turn end over end, regain his feet and toss something in the air.

"The fastest dog in Arizona," remarked the cowboy. "And you, you gla.s.s-eyed son of a mistake, you're about as fast as a fence-post!"

This to his patient and willing pony, that again swung into a run and ran steadily despite his fatigue, for he feared the instant slash of the quirt should he slacken pace.

Round a bend in the trail, where an arm of the distant forest ran out into the mesa. Fadeaway again set his horse up viciously. Chance stopped and looked up at the rider. The cowboy pointed through the thin rim of timber beyond which a herd of sheep was grazing. "Take 'em!" he whispered. Chance hesitated, not because he was unfamiliar with sheep, but because he had been punished for chasing and worrying them. "Go to it! Take 'em, Chance!"

The dog slunk through the timber and disappeared. The cowboy rode slowly, peering through the timber. Presently came the trample of frightened sheep--a shrill bleating, and then silence. Fadeaway loped out into the open. The sheep were running in all directions. He whistled the dog to him. Chance's muzzle dripped red. The dog slunk round behind the horse, knowing that he had done wrong, despite the fact that he had been set upon the sheep.

From the edge of the timber some one shouted. The cowboy turned and saw a herder running toward him. He reined around and sat waiting grimly. When the herder was within speaking distance. Fadeaway's hand dropped to his hip and the herder stopped. He gesticulated and spoke rapidly in Spanish. Fadeaway answered, but in a kind of Spanish not taught in schools or heard in indoor conversation.

The herder pressed forward. "Why, how! Fernando. Now what's bitin'

you?"

"The sheep! He kill the lamb!" cried the herder.

Fadeaway laughed. "Did, eh? Well, I tried to call him off. Reckon you heard me whistle him, didn't you?"

The cowboy's a.s.sertion was so palpably an insult that old Fernando's anger overcame his caution. He stepped forward threateningly.

Fadeaway's gun was out and a splash of dust leaped up at Fernando's feet. The herder turned and ran. Fadeaway laughed and swung away at a lope.

When he arrived at the Concho he unsaddled, turned his pony into the corral, and called to Chance. He was at the water-trough washing the dog's muzzle when John Corliss appeared. Fadeaway straightened up. He knew what was coming and knew that he deserved it. The effects of his conviviality at the Blue had worn off, leaving him in an ugly mood.

Corliss looked him over from head to heel. Then he glanced at the dog.

Chance turned his head down and sideways, avoiding his master's eye.

Fadeaway laughed.

"You get your time!" said Corliss.

"You're dam' right!" retorted Fadeaway.

"And you're d.a.m.ned wrong! Chance knows better than to tackle sheep unless he's put up to it. You needn't explain. Bud will give you your time."

Then Corliss turned to Shoop who had just ridden in.

"Chain that dog up and keep him chained up! And give Fadeaway his time, right up to the minute!"

Shoop dropped easily from the saddle, led his horse toward the corral, and whistled a sprightly ditty as he unsaddled him.

Fadeaway rolled a cigarette and strolled over to the bunk-house where he retailed his visit and its climax to a group of interested punchers.

"So he tied the can onto you, eh? And for settin' Chance on the sheep?

He ought to be much obliged to you, Fade. They ain't room for sheep and cattle both on this here range. We're gettin' backed plumb into the sunset."

Fadeaway nodded to the puncher who had spoken.

"And ole man Loring's just run in twenty thousand head from New Mex.,"

continued the puncher. "Wonder how Corliss likes that?"

"Don' know--and dam' 'f I care. If a guy can't have a little sport without gettin' fired for it, why, that guy don't work for the Concho.

The Blue's good enough for me and I can get a job ridin' for the Blue any time I want to cinch up."

"Well, Fade, I reckon you better cinch up p.r.o.nto, then," said Shoop who had just entered. "Here's your time. Jack's some sore, believe me!"

"Sore, eh? Well, before he gets through with me he'll be sorer. You can tell him for me."

"'Course I _can_--but I ain't goin' to. And I wouldn't if I was you.

No use showin' your hand so early in the game." And Shoop laughed.

"Well, she's full--six aces," said Fadeaway, touching his holster significantly.

"And Jack throws the fastest gun on the Concho," said Shoop, his genial smile gone; his face flushed. "I been your friend, if I do say it, Fade. But don't you go away with any little ole idea that I ain't workin' for Jack Corliss."

"What's that to me? I'm fired, ain't I?"