“The fastest dog in Arizona,” remarked the cowboy.  “And you, you glass-eyed son of a mistake, you’re about as fast as a fence-post!” This to his patient and willing pony, that again swung into a run and ran steadily despite his fatigue, for he feared the instant slash of the quirt should he slacken pace.

Round a bend in the trail, where an arm of the distant forest ran out into the mesa.  Fadeaway again set his horse up viciously.  Chance stopped and looked up at the rider.  The cowboy pointed through the thin rim of timber beyond which a herd of sheep was grazing.  “Take ’em!” he whispered.  Chance hesitated, not because he was unfamiliar with sheep, but because he had been punished for chasing and worrying them.  “Go to it!  Take ’em, Chance!”

The dog slunk through the timber and disappeared.  The cowboy rode slowly, peering through the timber.  Presently came the trample of frightened sheep—­a shrill bleating, and then silence.  Fadeaway loped out into the open.  The sheep were running in all directions.  He whistled the dog to him.  Chance’s muzzle dripped red.  The dog slunk round behind the horse, knowing that he had done wrong, despite the fact that he had been set upon the sheep.

From the edge of the timber some one shouted.  The cowboy turned and saw a herder running toward him.  He reined around and sat waiting grimly.  When the herder was within speaking distance.  Fadeaway’s hand dropped to his hip and the herder stopped.  He gesticulated and spoke rapidly in Spanish.  Fadeaway answered, but in a kind of Spanish not taught in schools or heard in indoor conversation.

The herder pressed forward.  “Why, how!  Fernando.  Now what’s bitin’ you?”

“The sheep!  He kill the lamb!” cried the herder.

Fadeaway laughed.  “Did, eh?  Well, I tried to call him off.  Reckon you heard me whistle him, didn’t you?”

The cowboy’s assertion was so palpably an insult that old Fernando’s anger overcame his caution.  He stepped forward threateningly.  Fadeaway’s gun was out and a splash of dust leaped up at Fernando’s feet.  The herder turned and ran.  Fadeaway laughed and swung away at a lope.

When he arrived at the Concho he unsaddled, turned his pony into the corral, and called to Chance.  He was at the water-trough washing the dog’s muzzle when John Corliss appeared.  Fadeaway straightened up.  He knew what was coming and knew that he deserved it.  The effects of his conviviality at the Blue had worn off, leaving him in an ugly mood.

Corliss looked him over from head to heel.  Then he glanced at the dog.  Chance turned his head down and sideways, avoiding his master’s eye.  Fadeaway laughed.

“You get your time!” said Corliss.

“You’re dam’ right!” retorted Fadeaway.

“And you’re damned wrong!  Chance knows better than to tackle sheep unless he’s put up to it.  You needn’t explain.  Bud will give you your time.”