“I don’t like to think so.  But Father Naab doesn’t trust Bolly, though she’s the best mustang he ever broke.”

“Better keep her in,” replied Jack, remembering Naab’s warning.  “I’ll hobble her, so if she does break loose she can’t go far.”

When Mescal and Jack drove in the sheep that afternoon, rather earlier than usual, Piute had returned with August Naab, Dave, and Billy, a string of mustangs and a pack-train of burros.

“Hello, Mescal,” cheerily called August, as they came into camp.  “Well Jack—­bless me!  Why, my lad, how fine and brown—­and yes, how you’ve filled out!” He crushed Jack’s hand in his broad palm, and his gray eyes beamed.  “I’ve not the gift of revelation—­but, Jack, you’re going to get well.”

“Yes, I—­” He had difficulty with his enunciation, but he thumped his breast significantly and smiled.

“Black sage and juniper!” exclaimed August.  “In this air if a man doesn’t go off quickly with pneumonia, he’ll get well.  I never had a doubt for you, Jack—­and thank God!”

He questioned Piute and Mescal about the sheep, and was greatly pleased with their report.  He shook his head when Jack spread out the grizzly-pelt, and asked for the story of the killing.  Jack made a poor showing with the tale and slighted his share in it, but Mescal told it as it actually happened.  And Naab’s great hand resounded from Jack’s shoulder.  Then, catching sight of the pile of coyote skins under the stone shelf, he gave vent to his surprise and delight.  Then he came back to the object of his trip upon the plateau.

“So you’ve corralled Silvermane?  Well, Jack, if he doesn’t jump over the cliff he’s ours.  He can’t get off any other way.  How many horses with him?”

“We had no chance to count.  I saw at least twelve.”

“Good!  He’s out with his picked band.  Weren’t they all blacks and bays?”

“Yes.”

“Jack, the history of that stallion wouldn’t make you proud of him.  We’ve corralled him by a lucky chance.  If I don’t miss my guess he’s after Bolly.  He has been a lot of trouble to ranchers all the way from the Nevada line across Utah.  The stallions he’s killed, the mares he’s led off!  Well, Dave, shall we thirst him out, or line up a long corral?”

“Better have a look around to-morrow,” replied Dave.  “It’ll take a lot of chasing to run him down, but there’s not a spring on the bench where we can throw up a trap-corral.  We’ll have to chase him.”

“Mescal, has Bolly been good since Silvermane came down?”

“No, she hasn’t,” declared Mescal, and told of the circumstance.

“Bolly’s all right,” said Billy Naab.  “Any mustang will do that.  Keep her belled and hobbled.”

“Silvermane would care a lot about that, if he wanted Bolly, wouldn’t he?” queried Dave in quiet scorn.  “Keep her roped and haltered, I say.”

“Dave’s right,” said August.  “You can’t trust a wild mustang any more than a wild horse.”