* * * * * Charlie didn’t tell him about that odd whispering sound in the night, nor the shots that were fired at him. There was no apparent connection between what he heard and cattle stealing--none that Charlie could see. And it seemed an entirely incredible affair, anyway, viewed from the sun-warmed porch of the ranch house. Nevertheless an idea as fantastic as that experience in the black dark popped into Charlie Shaw’s head--an idea that he felt powerfully urged to act upon. But he kept it to himself. If it proved imaginary, he would not have made himself ridiculous by talking. And Elmer Duffy’s scornful, angry epithets of “bonehead” and et cetera, had got deeper under Charlie’s skin than he cared to admit. He wanted to make Elmer swallow both his words and his opinions. And Charlie Shaw hated a cow thief. He had reasons, both personal and general. He carried scars on his body from the hands of such gentry. So did Rock. They were a unit in that. And they were equally close mouthed in important matters. They stood now silent, looking out across the river. “The Cross missed any stock?” Charlie asked at last. “No; nor the Narrow Gauge nor the Circle,” Rock replied. “But the trouble is they have so many cattle they would not miss any unless the loss was heavy; whereas we know within a few head how many calves we should brand and how many beef we should ship. We are shy almost one fourth of our beef cattle, and that is too big a whack at us. I don’t know what to think.” “It’s aggravatin’, all right,” Charlie said. “By gosh, y’know, I think it would be a good thing to make a round of them gradin’ camps on Lonesome Prairie. Let’s do it, Rock, you an’ me.” “I got to go to Helena,” Rock said. “Be gone a week. If you don’t get restless and move on, we’ll go scouting when I come back.” “I’m restless right now,” Charlie said. “If you’ll have your cook put up about three days’ grub for me, I’m goin’ to turn back north on a expedition of my own. Maybe I’ll know something when I get back, maybe not. I’ll tell you, anyhow.” “All right,” Rock said. He asked no questions. A man’s business, unless he was on the pay roll of an outfit, was entirely his own. Rock knew that Charlie didn’t turn in his tricks without a reason. But he knew better than to inquire that reason if Shaw didn’t volunteer it. He watched Charlie ride, leading his pack horse, up the north bank of the Marias, some time later, with a certain amount of unsatisfied curiosity and a feeling that he should perhaps be riding alongside that fair-haired youth. And if Rock had known what worked in Charlie Shaw’s mind, he would have mounted and followed him.