“No use beefin’, Billie.  You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.  But I’m goin’.  I didn’t christen myself Jimmie-Go-Get-’Em for nothin’.”

“Put it up to Webb first.  Let’s hear what he has got to say about it,” urged Prince.  “We’ve all got to pull together.  You can’t play a lone hand in this.”

“I’ll put it up to Webb when I’ve done the job.  He won’t be responsible for it then.  He can cut loose from me if he wants to.  So long, Billie.  I’ll sleep on Peg-Leg Warren’s trail till I git him.”

“Give up that fool notion, Jim.  I can’t let you go.  It wouldn’t be fair to you or to Webb either.  We’re all in this together.”

“What’ll you do to prevent my goin’?”

“I’ll tell the old man if I have to.  Sho, kid!  Let’s not you an’ me have trouble.”  Billie’s gentle smile pleaded for their friendship.  “We’ve been pals ever since we first met up.  Don’t go off on this crazy idea like a half-cocked hogleg.”

“We’re not goin’ to quarrel, Billie.  Nothin’ to that.  But I’m goin’ through.”  The boyish jaw clamped tight again.  The eyes that looked at his friend might have been of tempered steel for hardness.

“No.”

“Yes.”

Clanton was leaning against the rump of his horse.  He turned, indolently, gathered his body suddenly, and vaulted to the saddle.  Like a shot he was off into the night.

Billie, startled at the swiftness of his going, could only stare after him impotently.  He knew that it would be impossible to find one lone rider in the darkness.

Slowly he walked back to the grave.  The riders of the Flying V Y were gathered round in a quiet and silent group.  They were burying the body of him who had been the gayest and lightest-hearted of their circle only a few hours before.

As soon as the last shovelful of earth had been pressed down upon the mound, Webb turned to business.  The herd scattered over thirty miles of country must be gathered at once and he set about the round-up.  He had had bad runs on the trail before and he knew the job before his men was no easy one.

They jogged out on a Spanish trot in the trail of the stampede.  The chuck wagon was to meet them at Spring River next morning, where the first gather of beeves would be brought and held.  All night they rode, tough as hickory, strong as whip-cord.  Into the desert sky sifted the gray light which preceded the coming of day.  Banners of mauve and amethyst and topaz were flung across the horizon, to give place to glorious splashes of purple and pink and crimson.  The sun, a flaming ball of fire, rose big as a washtub from the edge of the desert.

In that early morning light crept over the plain little bunches of cattle followed by brown, lithe riders.  Like spokes of a wheel each group moved to a hub.  Old Black Ned, the cook, was the focus of their travel.  For at Spring River he had waiting for them hot coffee, flaky biscuits, steaks hot from the coals.  Each rider seized a tin cup, a tin plate, a knife and fork, and was ready for the best Uncle Ned had to offer.