out with designs as evil an’ triflin’ as Purdy’s—­only I ain’t a brute—­an’ I winds up by lovin’ her.  Yes—­that’s the word.  There ain’t no mortal use beatin’ around the bush to fool myself.  Spite of silk stockin’s she’s good clean through.  I reckon, maybe, they’re wore more promiscuous in the East.  That Eagle Creek Ranch, if them corrals was fixed up a little an’ them old cattle sheds tore down, an’ the ditches gone over, it would be a good outfit.  If it was taken hold of right, there wouldn’t be a better proposition on the South Slope.”  Gloom settled upon the cowboy’s face:  “But there’s Win.  I started out to show him up.”  He smiled grimly.  “Well, I did.  Only not just exactly as I allowed to.  Lookin’ over the back-trail, I reckon, when us four took to the brush there wasn’t only one damned skunk in the crowd—­an’ that was me.  It’s funny a man can be that ornery an’ never notice it.  But, I bet Bat knew.  He’s pure gold, Bat is.  He’s about as prepossessin’ to look at as an old gum boot, but his heart’s all there—­an’ you bet, Bat, he knows.”

It was within a quarter of a mile of Antelope Butte that the Texan, riding along the bottom of a wide coulee met another horseman.  This time there was no spurring toward him, and he noticed that the man’s hand rested near his right hip.  He shifted his own gun arm and continued on his course without apparently noticing the other who approached in the same manner.

Suddenly he laughed:  “Hello, Curt!”

“Well, I’m damned if it ain’t Tex!  Thought maybe I was going to get the high-sign.”

“Same here.”  Both men relaxed from their attitude of alertness, and Curt leaned closer.

“They ain’t dug him up yet,” he said, “but they sure are slingin’ gravel.  I hope to God they don’t.”

“They won’t.”

“Anything I can do?”

The Texan shook his head:  “Nothin’, thanks.”

“Hot as hell fer June, ain’t it.”

“Yes; who you ridin’ for?”

“K 2.”

“K 2!  Mister Kester moved his outfit over to the south slope?”

“Naw.  I’m huntin’ a couple of old brood mares Mister Kester bought offen the Bar A. They strayed away about a week ago.”

“Alone?”

“Might better be,” replied the cowboy in tones of disgust.  “I’ve got that damned fool, Joe Ainslee, along—­or ruther I had him.  Bob Brumley’s foreman of the K 2, now, an’ he hired the Wind Bag in a moment of mental abortion, as the fellow says, an’ he don’t dast fire him for fear he’ll starve to death.  They wouldn’t no other outfit have him around.  An’ I’m thinkin’ he’ll be damn lucky if he lives long enough to starve to death.  Bob sent him along with me—­said he’d do less harm than with the round-up, an’ would be safer—­me bein’ amiable enough not to kill him offhand.”

“Ain’t you found your mares?”

Curt snorted:  “Yes.  Found ’em couple hours ago.  An’ now I’ve lost the Wind Bag.  Them mares was grazin’ right plumb in plain sight of where I’d sent him circlin’, an’ doggone if he not only couldn’t find ’em, but he’s lost hisself.  An’ if he don’t show up pretty damn pronto he kin stay lost—­an’ the K 2 will win, at that.”