‘Let him start something, damn him,’ he growled savagely to himself, ‘any time.’  And he began wondering if now John Carr were sitting with Helen and her father in front of their little home?  Or if perhaps Longstreet had gone in to his books, and Carr and Helen alone, sitting quiet under the spell of the night, were looking out into the shining world of stars?  He cursed himself for a fool and an ingrate.  Didn’t Carr have a man’s right to ride where he chose?  And had he not already twice in twenty-four hours shown how clearly his thought and his heart were with his friend?  A revolver knocked at Howard’s side.  It was there because John Carr had shown him its need.

Howard’s impulse was to stay away from Last Ridge for a little longer.  He reasoned that Carr would be invited to stay overnight and would naturally accept the invitation.  Why should he not?  There is always room in camp for one more, and no doubt both Helen and her father would be glad of company to break their monotony and loneliness.  But before Howard had had time for more than an impulse there came the second episode of the night to set him thinking upon other matters.

As he rode he heard several voices and recognized them as those of his own men.  One guffawed loudly and there came the sound of his big hand slapping his leg in his high delight; another swore roundly and impatiently; a third was talking excitedly, earnestly.  This third was Sandy Weaver, an old hand, a little man characterized by his gentle eyes and soft voice and known across many miles as an individual in whom the truth did not abide.  All up and down these fringes of the desert he was known simply as Lying Sandy.

‘What’s the excitement, boys?’ demanded Howard.

Sandy wheeled his horse, pressing close to his employer’s side, and burst into quick explanation.  He had been working with Dave Terril over on the east side; they had found only a handful of stock there, and Sandy had left them to Dave, and in order to save time for the morrow had circled the valley and combed over the north end, under the Last Ridge cliffs.  Just before dark he had made his discovery.  His horse had found it first, shying and sniffing and then trying to bolt; Sandy was nothing if not circumstantial.

‘We’ve got some work to do to-night, Sandy.’ cut in Howard shortly.  ‘If you’ve got anything to say, go to it.’

‘Haw!’ gurgled Bandy O’Neil, recently from a California outfit, a man with a large sense of mirth.  ’He’s got his prize ring-tailed dandy to spring, Al.  Don’t choke him off or it’ll kill him.’

Sandy hearkened to neither of them, but hastened on.  He described the hidden sink in a boulder-ringed draw, the difficulty he had had in bringing his horse to the scene and his own stupefaction.  And when he had done all of this with his customary detail he declared that he had come upon a yearling bull, dead as a door nail and slaughtered after a fashion that made Sandy’s eyes widen in the starlight.