“They had me under herd; but she was wishing for the Bar Cross buddies to butt in, I believe.  Reckon your sheriff-man guessed it.  He had her under guard, too.”

“Nice man, the sheriff!  How’d you get away from your herder?”

“He don’t just remember,” said Pringle.

“Who was it?”

“Applegate.  Dreadful absent-minded, Applegate is.  Ouch!  There went my other shin.  Had any sleep?”

“Most all night.  Something woke me up about two hours ago, and I kept on the look-out ever since.”

“That was me, I guess.  I had to step lively.  They was crowding me.”

“If the Bar Cross happened to get word,” observed Foy thoughtfully, “we might stand some hack.  But they won’t.  It’s good-by, vain world, for ours!  Say, in case a miracle happens for you, just make a memo about the sheriff being a nuisance, will you?”

“I’ll tie a string on my finger.  Anything else?”

“You might stick around and cheer Stella up a little.  I’ll do as much for you sometime.  I’m thinking she’ll feel pretty bad at first.  Here we are!”

A faint glimmer showed ahead.  They crawled under low bushes and stumbled out, in what seemed at first a dazzle of light; into a small saucer-shaped plat of earth a few feet across, enclosed by an irregular oval made by great blocks of stone, man-high.  Below, a succession of little cliffs fell away, stair fashion, to an exceeding high and narrow gap which separated Little Thumb Butte from its greater neighbor, Big Thumb Butte.

“Castle Craney Crow,” smiled Foy with a proprietary wave of his hand.  “Just right for our business, isn’t it?  Make yourself at home, while I take a peep around about.”  He bent to peer through bush and crack.  “Nothing stirring,” he announced.  He leaned his rifle against a walling rock.  “Let’s have a look at that water.”

He raised the canteen to his lips.  Pringle struck swift and hard to the tilted chin.  Foy dropped like a poled bullock; his head struck heavily against the sharp corner of a rock.  Pringle pounced on the stricken man.  He threw Foy’s sixshooter aside; he pulled Foy’s wrists behind him and tied them tightly with a handkerchief.  Then he rolled his captive over.

Foy’s eyes opened; they rolled back till only the whites were visible; his lips twitched.  Pringle hastily bound his handkerchief to the gash the stone had made; he sprinkled the blood-streaked face with water; he spilled drops of water between the parted lips.  Foy did not revive.

Pringle stuck his hat on the rifle muzzle and waved it over the parapet of rock.

“Hello!” he shouted.  “Bring on your reward!  I’ve got Foy!  It’s me—­Pringle!  Come get him; and be quick—­he’s bleeding mighty bad.”

“Come out, you!  Hands up and no monkey business!” answered a startled voice not fifty yards away.

“Who’s that?  That you, Nueces?  Give me your word and I’ll lug him out.  No time to lose—­he’s hurt, and hurt bad.”