“Bud down, too?  Then I guess we ride!” And they swept out after Shorty.  They saw the diminutive cowboy tear through the band of herders, his gun going; saw his horse stumble and fall and a figure pitch from the saddle and roll to one side.  “And if I’m goin’—­I want to go out that way,” shouted Bull Cassidy.  “Shorty was some sport!”

But the Mexicans had had enough of it.  They wheeled and spurred toward the south.  The Concho horses, worn out by the night-journey, were soon distanced.

Corliss pulled up.  “Catch up a fresh horse, Hi.  And let Banks know how things stand.  If Loring isn’t all in, you might fetch the doctor back with you.  We’ll need him, anyway.”

“Sure!  Wonder who that is fannin’ it this way?  Don’t look like a puncher.”

Corliss turned and gazed down the road.  From the south came little puffs of dust as a black-and-white pinto running at top speed swept toward them.  He paled as he recognized the horse.

“It’s Loring’s girl,” said Wingle, glancing at Corliss.

Nell Loring reined up as she came opposite the Concho riders and turned from the road.  The men glanced at each other.  Then ensued an awkward silence.  The girl’s face was white and her dark eyes burned with reproach as she saw the trampled sheep and here and there the figure of a man prone on the mesa.  Corliss raised his hat as she rode up.  She sat her horse gazing at the men.  Without a word she turned and rode toward the ranch-house.  The Concho riders jingled along, in no hurry to face the scene which they knew awaited them at the water-hole.

She was on her knees supporting her father’s head when they dismounted and shuffled into the yard.  The old sheep-man blinked and tried to raise himself.  One of the Concho boys stepped forward and helped her get the wounded man to the house.

Corliss strode to the bedroom and spoke to Sundown who turned and sat up.  “Get hit, Sun?”

“No.  But I’m feelin’ kind of sick.  Is the ole man dead?”

“He’s hurt, but not bad.  We want the bed.”

Sundown got to his feet and sidled past the girl as she helped her father to the bed.

“I sent for the doctor,” said Corliss.

The girl whirled and faced him.  “You!” she exclaimed—­“You!”

The rancher’s shoulders straightened.  “Yes—­and it was my gun got him.  You might as well know all there is to it.”  Then he turned and, followed by Sundown, stepped to the yard.  “We’ll keep busy while we’re waiting.  Any of you boys that feel like riding can round up the herd.  Hi and I will look after—­the rest of it.”

“And Bud,” suggested a rider.

They found Shoop on the ground, the flesh of his shoulder torn away by a .45 and a welt of red above his ear where a Mexican’s bullet had creased him.  They carried him to the house.  “Sun, you might stir around and rustle some grub.  The boys will want to eat directly.”  And Corliss stepped to the water-trough, washed his hands, and then rolled a cigarette.  Hi Wingle sat beside him as they waited for dinner.  Suddenly Corliss turned to his cook.  “I guess we’ve won out, Hi,” he said.