Gray Leg continued to gaze into the distance, occasionally stamping an impatient forefoot, as though anxious to be off.  Lorry lowered his glass and raised it again.  In the circle of the binoculars he saw a tiny, distant figure dismount from a black horse and walk back and forth across the road directly below the Notch.  Lorry wiped his glasses and centered them on the Notch again.  The horseman had led his horse to a clump of brush.  Presently the twinkling front of an automobile appeared—­a miniature machine that wormed slowly through the Notch and descended the short pitch beyond.  Suddenly the car swerved and stopped.  Lorry saw a flutter of white near the machine.  Then the concealed horseman appeared on foot.  Lorry slipped the glass in his shirt.

“We’ll just mosey over and get a closer look,” he told his pony.  “Things don’t look just right over there.”

Gray Leg, scenting a new interest, tucked himself together.  The sand sprayed to little puffs of dust as he swung to a lope.

Lorry was curious—­and a bit elated at the promise of a break in the monotony of hunting stray cattle.  Probably some Eastern tourist had taken the grade below the Notch too fast and ditched his machine.  Lorry would ride over and help him to right the car and set the pilgrim on his way rejoicing.  He had helped to right cars before.  Last month, for instance; that big car with the uniformed driver and the wonderfully gowned women.  He recalled the fact that one of them had been absolutely beautiful, despite her strange mufflings.  She had offered to pay him for his trouble.  When he refused she had thanked him eloquently with her fine eyes and thrown him a kiss as he turned to go.  She had thrown that kiss with two hands!  There was nothing stingy about that lady!

But possibly the machine toward which he rode carried nothing more interesting than men; fat, well-dressed men who smoked fat cigars and had much to say about “high” and “low,” but didn’t seem to know a great deal about “Jack” and “The Game.”  If they offered to pay him for helping them—­well, that was a different matter.

The pony loped toward the Notch, quite as eager as his rider to attend a performance that promised action.  Within a half-mile of the Notch, Lorry pulled the pony to a walk.  Just beyond the car he had seen the head and ears of a horse.  The rider was afoot, talking to the folks in the car.  This didn’t look quite right.

He worked his pony through the shoulder-high brush until within a few yards of the other man, who was evidently unwelcome.  One of the two women stood in front of the other as though to shield her.

Lorry took down his rope just as the younger of the two women saw his head above the brush.  The strange horseman, noting her expression, turned quickly.  Lorry’s pony jumped at the thrust of the spurs.  The rope circled like a swallow and settled lightly on the man’s shoulders.  The pony wheeled.  The blunt report of a gun punctured the silence, followed by the long-drawn ripping of brush and the snorting of the pony.