He rolled his eyes significantly at the group of assembled cowboys, and Creede took it all in at a flash. There _were_ others--he himself had a set of rattles in his shap pocket that were not two hours from the stump. The situation called for diplomacy. "Well," he drawled, scratching his bushy head to cover his confusion, "this reflects great credit on your bringin' up, Jim, and I'm sure Miss Bonnair will appreciate what you've done for her, especially as I happened to notice a couple o' head of your own cows in that bunch, but it's a mighty expensive way to collect snake-tails. We ain't gittin' the cattle, boys; that's the size of it, and they're as much yours as they are mine. Now I suggest that we run these few we've got down to the corral and brand 'em quick--and then the whole shootin'-match goes over to the big white cliff and rounds up every rattlesnake in the rock pile! Is it a go?" "Sure!" yelled the bunch impetuously, and as they charged down upon the herd Creede quietly fished out his snake-tail and dropped it in the dirt. If he lacked a virtue he could feign it, anyhow--but there was no doubt about it, Miss Kitty was putting his _rodeo_ on the bum. There had never been so many men to feed and so few calves to brand in the history of Hidden Water. Even old Bill Johnson had got the fever from hearing the boys talk and was hanging around the fire. But then, what were a few head of cows compared to--well, what was it, anyway? The only man who could stay away was Rufe, and he was in good company. Yet Creede was not satisfied with this explanation. Miss Kitty was always asking questions about Rufe--they had known each other well in Berkeley--and at the same time the little partner with whom he had been so friendly never came around any more. He was always very polite, and she called him by his first name--and then one of them rode up the river and the other followed the round-up. The night after the big snake-killing Jefferson Creede picked up his blankets and moved quietly back to the _ramada_ with Hardy. "Them locoed punchers have been skinnin' rattlers and stretchin' their hides," he said, "until the camp stinks like a buzzard roost. I'm due to have some bad dreams to-night anyhow, on the strength of this snake-killin', but it'd give me the jumpin' jimjams if I had to sleep next to them remains. Didn't git back in time to join in, did ye? Well, no great loss. I always did intend to clean out that snake hole over'n the cliff, and the boys was stoppin' every time they heard one sing, anyhow, in order to git the rattles for Miss Bonnair, so I thought we might as well git it off our minds before somethin' worse turned up. See any sheep tracks?" He kicked off his boots, poked his six-shooter under his pillow, and settled down comfortably for the night.