By four o’clock in the morning the fifteen hundred head of cattle had crossed the ford of the Big Horn and were bedded down on the other side. When this hazardous business had been completed, Bud Larkin ordered the sheep brought up and kept on the eastern bank among the cool grass of the bottoms.

The captive rustlers, under guard, were being held until daylight, when, it had been decided, they would be taken to the almost deserted Bar T ranch, and kept there until further action could be determined on in regard to them.

When dawn finally came Bud looked at the stolid faces of the men, and recognized most of them as having belonged to the party that had so nearly ended his earthly career. He called them by their names, and some of them grinned a recognition.

“Hardly expected to meet yuh again,” said one amiably. “Thought it might be t’other side of Jordan, but not this side of the Big Horn.” 236

“That’s one advantage of raising sheep,” retorted Bud. “Mine are so well trained they stampede in time to save my life. You fellows ought to have joined me in the business then.”

“Wisht we had,” remarked another gloomily. “’Tain’t so hard on the neck in the end.”

Bud wondered at the hardihood of a man who, facing sure death, could still joke grimly about it.

Directly after breakfast the rustlers were mounted on their horses, with their arms tied behind them, and, under a guard of six men, started on their journey to the Bar T. In charge of the outfit was a gray-haired sheep-owner from Montana, and to his care Bud entrusted a long letter to Juliet that he had added to day by day with a pencil as opportunity offered.

It was such a letter as a lonely girl in love likes to get, and Bud’s only thought in sending it was to prove that she was ever in his mind, and that he was still safe and well.

Weary and sleepless, Bud then prepared for the ordeal with Stelton. From Sims, who seemed to know the country thoroughly, he learned that Indian Coulee was almost thirty miles south-east, and could be distinguished by the rough weather-sculpture of an Indian head on the butte that formed one side of the ravine. 237

Lest there be a misunderstanding, it should be said here that this was the second day after the battle of Welsh’s Butte, as it came to be known. The first day the punchers had been busy burying the dead and attending to the numerous things to which such an occasion gives rise. It was on the morning of this day that Stelton, giving as an excuse his urgent desire to return to the Bar T, had ridden away, commanding his cowboys to remain and do their portion of the work.

Late in the afternoon he had met Smithy Caldwell in a secret place, and given him a note to the leader of the band of rustlers. This Caldwell, with his usual tricky foresight, did not deliver, giving the message by word of mouth, and keeping the piece of paper as evidence in case Stelton should turn against him.

Stelton, anxious to hear how the commencement of the drive fared before returning to the Bar T ranch, camped in the hills that night, and moved on to Indian Coulee the next morning to await the messenger.

Just previous to starting on the long ride, Larkin called Sims to him.

“Now, I’ll tell you why I want these cows,” he said. “We’ve got to rush the sheep up the range. As soon as I’m gone start ’em, but surround the 238 sheep with a line of cows, and keep a good bunch ahead. From a distance it will look like a cattle-drive, and may serve to throw the punchers off the track if they’re anywhere in sight.”

“By Michaeljohn! That’s a good idea!” exclaimed Sims; “but I don’t allow either of them will feed much.”

“Let ’em starve, then; but keep ’em moving,” said Bud. “We win or bust on this effort. Fact is, we’ve got to keep those cows anyhow, to return them to their owners if possible, and you might as well make some good use of them.”

Mike Stelton, meanwhile, who had often used the place as a rendezvous before, went into the usual shady spot, dropped the reins over his horse’s head, and lay down.

Stelton’s heart was at peace, for the sheepmen he considered defeated at every angle. Jimmie Welsh, half dead and delirious, was on his way to the Circle Arrow ranch under Billy Speaker’s care. Consequently, it was impossible that Bud Larkin should know anything of the battle at Welsh’s Butte.

Larkin would go on about his plans, dreaming the cowmen still in captivity, and the pursuing punchers on a false trail, Stelton calculated. Then he chuckled at the surprise in store for the ambitious 239 sheepmen, for the remaining cowboys under Beef Bissell had already begun to talk of a war of extermination and revenge.

When he had disposed of Larkin to his satisfaction, the foreman recollected with delight that the rustlers must have the fifteen hundred cows well up the range by this morning. The chance of their being intercepted by the cowboys was small, and the probabilities were that they would be at the northern shipping-point and well out of the way before the punchers had finished with the miserable sheep.

Two things Mike Stelton had not counted on. One was the prompt and daring action of Larkin in risking his all on one forced march up the range; the other was the treachery of Smithy Caldwell in not burning the note according to instructions.

From the first Stelton had “doped” Caldwell out all wrong. He took him for a really evil character supplied with a fund of sly cunning and clever brains that would benefit the rustlers immensely, and for that reason had warmly supported his application for membership. Somehow he did not see the cowardly streak and dangerous selfishness that were the man’s two distinguishing traits.

Now, as Stelton lay in the shade with his hat over his face, steeped in roseate dreams, the weariness 240 of a week of long marches and an afternoon’s hard fighting oppressed him. He had been riding nights of late, and just to lie down was to feel drowsy. He would like to get a nap before the sun got directly above and left no shade whatever, but he did not permit himself this luxury, although, like all men with uneasy consciences, he was a very light sleeper.

He figured that he could hear the trotting of a horse in plenty of time to prepare for any possible danger, and remained flat on his back in the warm sun, half-asleep, but yet keenly alert.

Bud Larkin, sighting the coulee and Stelton’s horse at a considerable distance, dismounted and promptly got out of range. Then he continued stealthily to approach, wondering why Stelton did not put in an appearance somewhere and start hostilities.

A quarter of a mile from the spot where Stelton’s horse stood dejectedly Larkin left his own animal and proceeded on foot. Nearer and nearer he approached, and still there was no sign of Stelton.

Bud unslung his glasses, and scanning the rocks near the horse carefully, at last made out the small outline of a booted foot along the ground. Then 241 he drew his revolver and crept forward, choosing every step with care.

At a distance of thirty yards his foot unconsciously crunched a bit of rotten stone. There was a scrambling behind the rock, and a moment later Stelton’s head appeared. Bud had him covered with two revolvers, and on sight of the dark face ran forward to finish the job.

But the foreman was no mollycoddle, and with one lightning-like motion unlimbered his .45 and began to shoot. Like most Western gun-handlers, his revolver commenced to spit as soon as its mouth was out of the holster, and the bullets spurted up the sand twice in front of Bud before the muzzle had reached a dangerous angle, so swiftly was it fired.

But the sheepman was not idle, and had both guns working so accurately that at last Stelton drew in his head, but left his hand around the corner of the rock, still pulling the trigger. He would never have done this with any other man, but he still considered Larkin a “dude” and a sheepman, and knew that neither was much of a shot.

With a ball through his right foot, Bud hopped out of the path of the stream of lead and discharged 242 each revolver once at the same spot. The result was a broken hand and a wrecked gun for Stelton, who, unfortunately, did not know that Larkin, on occasions, had split the edges of playing cards with dueling pistols.

Before the Bar T foreman could reach his Winchester, Bud was around the rock, and had him covered. Stelton gave one look at the hard, determined eyes of the sheepman and thought better of the impulse to bolt for the rifle on a chance. He slowly hoisted his hands.

“Well, darn it, what do yuh want?” he snarled.

“First I want you to back up against that rock and keep your hands in the air until I tell you to take ’em down,” said Bud, in a tone that meant business.

Stelton obeyed the command sullenly. Then Larkin, keeping him covered, picked up the Winchester and found another .45 in an extra holster thrown over the pommel of the saddle. Next he took down Stelton’s rope.

Larkin was satisfied with his investigations. “Turn around and face the rock, and hold your hands out behind you!” he ordered.

With the wicked glitter of an animal at bay in his eye, Stelton did as he was told, and in a moment Larkin had him bound and helpless, and on the end of a tether. Still covering his man, he mounted Stelton’s horse and told him to march ahead.

In this manner they traveled the quarter-mile to Bud’s animal. There they exchanged beasts, and started on the long ride back to the sheep camp.

“What’re yuh doin’ this for?” stormed Stelton, at a loss to explain the sudden appearance of Larkin in Caldwell’s place, but beginning to have a terrible fear.

“Don’t you know?”

“No, I don’t.” His tone was convincing.

“Well, I’ll tell you. All the rustlers are taken, and I have absolute proof that you are their leader,” replied Bud coolly. “I allow old Bissell will be glad to see you when you’re brought in, eh?”

Stelton laughed contemptuously.

“What proof?” he demanded.

“A note to Smithy Caldwell that he forgot to burn. He tried to swallow it when I captured him, but I saw him first.”

Stelton stood the blow well and made no answer, but Larkin, watching him, saw his head drop a trifle as though he were crushed by some heavy weight. 244

“What’re yuh goin’ to do with me now?” he asked at last.

“Ship you under guard to the Bar T ranch, where the rest have gone. Then the cattlemen can settle your case when they come back from their vacation.”

For an instant it was on Stelton’s tongue to blurt out what had happened two days previous, but an instinctive knowledge that Larkin would profit by the information restrained him, and he continued riding on in silence, a prey to dismal thoughts better imagined than described.