Johnny had ridden out on the recaptured Sandy.  When he had time to think of it, that glimpse of the horsemen and the loose horses over beyond the red hill nagged him with a warning that all was not well on the Rolling R range.  He had headed straight for the red hill, and he had noticed many little, betraying signs that had long escaped him in his preoccupation with his own dreams and ambitions.

The horses were wild, and ducked into whatever cover was nearest when he approached.  Johnny knew that they had lately been chased and frightened, and that there was only one logical reason for that, because none of the Rolling R boys had been down on the Sinkhole range since the colts were branded and these horses driven down for the summer grazing.

Johnny rode to where he had seen the horseman, picked up the tracks of shod hoofs and followed them to the fence.  Saw where two panels of wire had been loosened and afterwards refastened.  Some one had dropped a couple of new staples beside one post, and there were fresh hammer dents in the wood.  Johnny had not done it; there was only one other answer to the question of the fence-mender’s reason.  There was no mystery whatever.  Johnny looked, and he knew.

He looked out across the fence and knew, too, how helpless he was.  He had not even brought his rifle, as Sudden had told him to do.  The rifle had been a nuisance, and Johnny conveniently forgot it once or twice, and then had told himself that it was just a notion of old Sudden’s—­and what was the use of packing something you never would need?  He had not carried it with him for more than three weeks.  But if he had it now, he knew that it would not help him any.  The thieves had hours the start of him.  It had been just after sunrise that he had seen them—­he, a Rolling R man, sailing foolishly around in an airplane and actually seeing a bunch of Rolling R horses being stolen, without caring enough to think what the fellows were up to!  Self-disgust seized him nauseatingly.  It was there at the fence he first wished he had fallen and broken his neck.

He turned back, rode until he had located a bunch of horses, made a rough count, and went on, heavy-hearted, steeped in self-condemnation.  He located other horses, scattered here and there in little groups, and kept a mental tally of their numbers.  Now, while the sun dipped low toward the western hills, he watched this last herd dismally, knowing how completely he had failed in his trust.

Square with his boss!  He, Johnny Jewel, had presumed to prate of it that day, with half the horses stolen from Sinkhole.  For so did conscience magnify the catastrophe.  He had dared to assume that his presence there at Sinkhole was necessary to the welfare of the Rolling R!  Johnny laughed, but tears would have been less bitter than his laughter.

He had been proud of himself, arrogantly sure of his ability, his nerve, his general superiority.  He, who had shirked his duty, the work that won him his food and clothes and money to spend, he had blandly considered himself master of himself, master of his destiny!  He had fatuously believed that, had belittled his work and thought it unworthy his time and thought and ability—­and he had let himself be hoodwinked and robbed in broad daylight!