Jim Bailey, however, was not altogether happy.  He was worried about Young Pete.  The incident at the round-up had set him thinking.  The T-Bar-T and the Concho men were not over-friendly.  There were certain questions of grazing and water that had never been definitely settled.  The Concho had always claimed the right to run their cattle on the Blue Mesa with the Blue Range as a tentative line of demarcation.  The T-Bar-T always claimed the Blue as part of their range.  There had been some bickering until the killing of Annersley, when Bailey promptly issued word to his men to keep the Concho cattle north of the homestead.  He had refused to have anything to do with the raid, nor did he now intend that his cattle should be an evidence that he had even countenanced it.

Young Pete had unwittingly stirred up the old enmity.  Any untoward act of a cowboy under such circumstances would be taken as expressive of the policy of the foreman.  Even if Pete’s quarrel was purely a personal matter there was no telling to what it might lead.  The right or wrong of the matter, personally, was not for Bailey to decide.  His duty was to keep his cattle where they belonged and his men out of trouble.  And because he was known as level-headed and capable he held the position of actual manager of the Concho—­owned by an Eastern syndicate—­but he was too modest and sensible to assume any such title, realizing that as foreman he was in closer touch with his men.  They told him things, as foreman, that as manager he would have heard indirectly through a foreman—­qualified or elaborated as that official might choose.

As he jogged along across the levels Bailey thought it all over.  He would have a talk with Young Pete when he returned and try to show him that his recent attitude toward Gary militated against the Concho’s unprinted motto:  “The fewer quarrels the more beef.”

Halfway across the mesa there was what was known as “The Pit “; a circular hole in the plain; rock-walled, some forty or fifty yards in diameter and as many yards deep.  Its bottom was covered with fine, loose sand, a strange circumstance in a country composed of tufa and volcanic rock.  Legend had it that the Pit was an old Hopi tank, or water-hole—­a huge cistern where that prehistoric tribe conserved the rain.  Bits of broken pottery and scattered beads bore out this theory, and round the tank lay the low, crumbling mounds of what had once been a village.

The trail on the Blue ran close to the Pit, and no rider passing it failed to glance down.  Cattle occasionally strayed into it and if weak were unable to climb out again without help from horse and rope.  As Bailey approached, he heard the unmistakable bark of a six-shooter.  He slipped from his horse, strode cautiously to the rim, and peered over.