Shoop reined close to Corliss and held out his hand.  “Mebby not, Jack.  But if we do—­so-long.”

Then the genial Bud loped to the outriders, picking them up one by one.  The cattle, freed from the vigilance of the circling horsemen, sniffed the dawn, crowded to a wedge, and began to trot, then to run.  Shoop and his four companions spurred ahead, swung to the road, and thundered past the ranch-house as a faint edge of light shot over the eastern horizon.  They entered the mouth of the draw, swung around, and reined up.

“We’re goin’ to chip in when Jack opens the pot,” said Shoop.  “Just how strong we’ll come in depends on how strong Jack opens her.”  Then with seeming irrelevance he remarked casually:  “Sinker wasn’t such a bad ole scout.”

“Which Loring’s goin’ to find out right soon,” said “Mebby-So,” a lean Texan.

“Sinker’s sure goin’ to have company, I take it,” remarked “Bull” Cassidy.

“Boss’s orders is to take her without makin’ any noise,” said Shoop.

“Huh! I’m plumb disappointed,” asserted Mebby-So.  “I was figurin’ on singin’ hymns and accompanyin’ meself on me—­me cayuse.  Listen!  Somethin’ ’s broke loose!”

Thundering like an avalanche the herd swept down on the water-hole, ploughing through a band of sheep that were bedded down between them and the ranch.  The herder’s tent was torn to ribbons.  Wingle, trailing behind the herd, dismounted, and, stooping, disarmed the bruised and battered Mexican who had struggled to his feet as he rode up.

From the water-hole came shouts, and Corliss saw several men come running from the house to seize their horses and ride out toward the cattle.  The band of riders opened up and the distant popping of Winchesters told him that the herders were endeavoring to check the rush of the thirst-maddened steers.  The carcasses of sheep, trampled to pulp, lay scattered over the mesa.

“It sure is hell!” remarked Wingle, riding up to Corliss.

“Hell is correct,” said Corliss, spurring forward.  “Now I reckon we’ll ride over to the rancho and see if Loring wants any more of it.”

Silently the rancher and his men rode toward the water-hole.  As they drew near the line fence, the Mexican riders, swinging in a wide circle, spurred to head them off.

“Hold on!” shouted Corliss.  “We’ll pull up and wait for ’em.”

“Suits me,” said Wingle, loosening his gun from the holster.

The Mexicans, led by Loring, loped up and reined with a slither of hoofs and the snorting of excited ponies.  Corliss held up his hand.  Loring spurred forward and Corliss rode to meet him.

“Want any more of it?” queried Corliss.

“I’ll take all you got,” snarled Loring.

“All right.  Just listen a minute.”  And Corliss reached in his saddle-pocket.  “Here’s a lease from the Government covering the ten sections adjoining the water-hole ranch, on the south and west.  And here’s a contract with the owner of the water-hole, signed and witnessed, for the use of the water for my stock.  You’re playing an old-fashioned game, Loring, that’s out of date.  Want to look over these papers?”