are you trying to see?" Bud asked.
"I thought father and some of the cowboys would probably follow the sheep once they had started them. Oh, what have I said?"
"I imagined it was they who had done it," said Bud quietly, the full enormity of the thing not yet having sunk deep into his mind. "How did you get mixed up in it?"
"Simply enough," replied Julie. "Late in the afternoon Chuck, one of the men on the eastern range, came riding in and said that your sheep were directly east of the ranch house. Father and Mike Stelton talked a lot about it at supper, and figured up then that the easiest way--well, to teach you a lesson, they called it--was to run them over the bank of the Little River.
"I don't like sheep, Bud, as you know; but that was going too far for me, and I protested, with the result that father took Mike outside with him, quite upset that I said anything at all. Both of them looked black as a silk hat."
"Good little girl!" cried Bud gratefully, and she turned her face directly toward him and smiled; just such a smile, Larkin remembered, as he had seen her use on other soft nights years before, in circumstances so totally different.
"After supper," she continued, "there was a great bustle of getting away, and I grew curious to see what they would do and how. So as soon as they left I saddled my calico and set out after them, keeping about abreast but a couple of miles to the north. The next thing I heard was a terrific lot of shooting and yelling, and the business was done. I don't wonder the sheep were in a panic!
"Then I heard the sound of the stampede, but I did not realize it was driving straight at me. I must have been confused in my idea of where the Little River was. Anyway, before I had time to think about it I realized I was directly in their path and with a very small advantage. I could escape neither to right nor left, for the wings of the running flock were wide, and all I could do was to run my pony as hard as he could go.
"He seemed to know the danger; all cow ponies do, I guess, for I never saw him travel like that in all my life; he stretched so flat along the ground that it almost seemed as though I could reach down and touch it with my hand. You know what such speed as that is at night with the gopher-holes and other ankle-breakers! Well, we took the chance, and Billy actually drew away from the sheep, panicky as they were.
"But I couldn't gain enough to dare to turn to right or left, and I had just about given up hope because the trees were ahead, when I saw the flash and heard the report of your gun. Thank God it was you, Bud. I've never known you to be a coward or to fail in any situation. I can't say how grateful I am for what you have done to-night."
"I assure you I didn't do it, Julie; it was that man who got sick and left us. He's disappeared now."
"Who was he? One of the Bar T punchers?"
"No, it was that fellow, Caldwell. Perhaps you don't remember him--he came to the Bar T for supper the same night I did."
"Yes, I remember him," said Julie in a tone out of which all the impetuous warmth had gone. Suddenly in this strange situation she found herself face to face with another chapter in the mystery that baffled her.
"Well, he saved my life to-night, and, though I can't say I admire the fellow very much, I am mighty grateful to him."
"It is strange you two should be together out here when your sheep were somewhere else," hazarded Juliet, looking full at Larkin and expecting some action or word to betray his fear of her suspicions.
"Not at all strange when you know the circumstances," he replied. "Just listen to this tale of adventure. But first I think we had better start walking toward the Bar T ranch house. We ought to meet some of the cowboys. Br-r--it's cold!" and Bud shivered in the piercing chill of the spring night.
To the plainsman walking is the most refined form of punishment. Your real cowboy slouches miserably along in his tight-fitting, uncomfortable high-heeled boots, looking about as much in his element as a stranded whale. In cowboy parlance his "feet don't track," his backbone wilts, and his knees bow naturally as a result of early horseback riding. On solid earth the cowboy is a crestfallen and dejected object.
As the two trudged along beneath the calm stars that had seen a thousand stampedes since the millions of buffalo roared up and down its length, Larkin told Juliet of the events that had occurred since they had said farewell at the fork of Grassy Creek. At the mention of the rustlers and the activities they were carrying on the girl gave a little, low cry.
"Father must hear that," she said. "He would give a lot to have descriptions of those men."
"He couldn't give me back two thousand sheep and lambs," rejoined Bud bitterly.
"No, but I think he would give you their value."
"Yes, and stampede it into another gully when I brought it across his range. Juliet, I'm not done with this thing. I'll fight your father or any other man that ever heard a calf bawl for milk, until I get my rights on the free range."
Larkin's voice was deep and full-throated with the righteous anger that surged through him over the outrage that had been wrought that night.
As for the girl, she did not recognize this Bud Larkin. The man she had known had been one of gay pleasantries, but rather ineffectual endeavors; this man who spoke was one to whom his will was his law, and obstacles merely helps because of their strengthening of his determination. For the first time she saw the Bud Larkin that had developed in the last year, and a kind of admiring thrill at the mental stature of the man went through her.
And yet she knew that war--hard, tenacious, ugly war--war without quarter, mercy, or respite, was irrevocably declared between Larkin and her father; and, even in her instinctive loyalty to her house, she had to admit that Bud was justified.
"Oh, I wish you would give the whole thing up!" she said plaintively. "It will only result in ruin to everybody."
Larkin laughed harshly.
"I'll never give it up until I am either dead or haven't a dollar left," he replied. "I am determined to have my rights in this matter, and I shall have them whatever the cost."
For a time there was silence between them, each realizing that further discussion could only prove unhappy.
They had gone about two miles from the scene of the stampede when suddenly a man appeared close in front of them and commanded them to halt.
"Hello, Sims!" cried Larkin joyfully, recognizing the other's voice, but at the same time hoisting his hands above his head.
"Well, chief," said the herder imperturbably, returning his revolver to its holster, "I allow your vacation has cost you a lot of money."
Bud then outlined his experiences briefly, concluding with his story of the stampede, and Sims whistled in amazement, his one method of expressing astonishment.
"Well, what's the story now?" Bud asked.
Juliet had walked ahead when the two men met, and now Larkin dropped far enough behind to be out of ear-shot and yet keep the girl dimly in sight.
Hurriedly, for him, Sims related the story of the ill-fated expedition up to the time of the stampede. He and the herders had put up what defense they could, he said, and, as a result, two of his men were dead and the others scattered. However, he expected they would return to the now deserted camp.
"I want you to take them back south to the Badwater River," ordered Larkin. "The second flock ought to be there by this time, but I want you to hold them there. In two days the boys from Montana ought to be down, and when you're ready to start north you will have force enough to fight any bunch of cowboys old Bissell can scrape together."
"But if we don't move that flock out right away the others will come and pile up there, and then we shore will have our hands full."
"All right, let 'em pile up. We'll get 'em through just the same. Now, Sims, we are in this thing for blood from now on, and don't you forget it for a minute."
"Trust me, boss," drawled the herder. "Are you comin' down to join us?"
"Yes,