Brayley was back from the Lone Dog.  He saw him at night when he came into the bunk-house.  He and Brayley looked at each other, saying no word.  Brayley turned with a casual remark to one of the men; Conniston took his place at the table.  Still they said nothing to each other, each man knowing without words that what had passed between them was passed until some new incident should arise to settle matters for them.  Brayley, being quick of eye, saw that Conniston had adopted at least one of the customs of the range, and that he carried a revolver at his belt.

The third day was Friday.  Conniston determined to work Saturday.  Then he would have Sunday for rest.  And when Sunday afternoon came he could quit if he felt that his aching body had not recuperated enough to make the following week bearable.  But he had yet to learn that in the rush of busy days on the range there is no Sunday.  For Sunday morning came and brought no opportunity to sleep until noon.  Breakfast was ready at the usual dim hour, and the men went to work as they had on every day since he came to the Half Moon.  They knew what he did not, that for many weeks to come they might have no single day off.  And they understood, and did not complain.

Brayley stopped him that morning as he was going out of the bunk-house door with Lonesome Pete.

“We got something else to do besides tinker with ol’ fences,” he said, roughly.  “Pete, you got to git along alone to-day.  I’ll give you a man to-morrow if I can spare one.  Conniston, you git your hoss an’ go with Rawhide an’ Toothy.”

Not stopping for an answer, Brayley lurched away toward the range-house.  Lonesome Pete, nodding his red head to show that he had heard, filled his water-bottle and got the lunch the cook had ready for him.  And Conniston, wondering vaguely what work the Sunday was to bring for him, turned silently and followed Rawhide and the man whom they called Toothy to the stables.

Toothy was a little man, so stubborn, they said, that he even refused to let the sun brown his skin.  Instead of being the coppery hue of his companions, the parchment-like stuff drawn tight over his high cheek-bones was a dirty yellow.  His eyes were small, set close together, and squinted eternally in a sort of mirthless grin.  His teeth, which had given him his name, were the most conspicuous of his odd features.  The two front incisors of his upper jaw protruded outward so as to close when his mouth was shut—­and generally it wasn’t—­over his lower lip.  He was the smallest man on the range and by long odds the ugliest.  But he could ride!