Pete turned in.  Brevoort rode out to drift along the line fence until daylight.

And Pete dreamed strange dreams of night-riders who came and went swiftly and mysteriously; and of a dusty, shuffling herd that wound its slow way across the desert, hazed by a flitting band of armed riders who continually glanced back as though fearful of pursuit.  Suddenly the dream changed.  He was lying on a bed in a long, white-walled room, dimly lighted by a flickering gas-jet, and Boca stood beside him gazing down at him wistfully.  He tried to speak to her, but could not.  Nor did she speak to him, but laid her hand on his forehead, pressing down his eyelids.  Her hand was dry and hot.  Pete tried to open his eyes—­to raise his hand, to speak.  Although his eyes were closed and Boca’s hot hand was pressed down on them, Pete knew that round-about was a light and warmth of noonday . . .  Boca’s hand drew back—­and Pete lay staring straight into the morning sun which shone through the open doorway.  In the distance he could see Brevoort riding slowly toward him.  Pete raised on his elbow and threw back the blankets.  As he rose and pulled on his overalls he thought of the messenger.  He knew that somewhere back on the northern trail the men of the Olla were pushing a herd of cattle slowly south,—­cattle from the T-Bar-T, the Blue, and . . . he suddenly recalled Harper’s remark—­“And countin’ the Concho stuff . . .”  Pete thought of Jim Bailey and Andy White, and of pleasant days riding for the Concho.  But after all, it was none of his affair.  He had had no hand in stealing the cattle.  He would do well enough to keep his own hide whole.  Let the cattlemen who lived under the law take care of their own stock and themselves.  And curiously enough, Pete for the first time wondered what had become of Malvey—­if the posse had actually shot him, or if they had simply taken the horse and let Malvey go.  The arrival of Brevoort put an end to his pondering.

“Brent will be in to-day,” said Brevoort.  “You stick around here; and call me about noon.”

“The old man ain’t takin’ chances,” remarked Pete.

“You’re wrong there,” asserted Brevoort.  “He’s takin’ the long chance every time, or he wouldn’t be foreman of this outfit.  You’ll find that out if you stick round here long enough.  If you don’t call it takin’ a chance pullin’ off a trick like this one that’s comin’, jest try it yourself.”

“He handles men easy,” asserted Pete, recalling Brent’s rather fatherly advice in regard to Texas and the opportunity for a young man to go straight.

“You sure please me most to death,” drawled Brevoort.  “You been a right quiet little pardner, and smilin’, so I’m going to tell you somethin’ that you can keep right on bein’ quiet about.  Sam Brent would send you or me or any man into a gun-fight, or a posse, or a jail, and never blink his eye, if he thought it was good business for him.  He’d do it pleasant, too, jest like he was sendin’ you to a dance, or a show.  But he’d go jest as quick hisself, if he had to.”