"Well, you woke up, did you?" he inquired, laying one hand carelessly on the bulge in Hardy's right shap, where modest cowboys sometimes secrete their guns. "Um-huh!" he grunted, slapping the left shap to make sure. "I suspected as much. Well, I congratulate you, supe--if my girl had asked me I reckon I'd've give up my gun too. But she gimme a kiss, anyway," he added, tossing his head triumphantly. "Who did?" demanded Hardy, coming suddenly out of his dream. "Why, Kitty, sure," returned Creede artlessly; and then, noting the look of incredulity on his partner's face, he slapped him on the leg and laughed consumedly. "Oh, you're not the only pebble on the beach," he cried. "Ump-um--there are others! Say, it's hell to be in love, ain't it?" He looked up at Hardy, the laughter still in his cheeks, but for once there was no answering smile. The large gray eyes were far away and distant, fixed vacantly upon the dust cloud where the sheep gathered in the east. Then, as if dismissing some haunting vision from his mind, the little man shook himself and drew away. "That's right," he said solemnly, "it is." CHAPTER XVII CHICO AND GRANDE Between the mouth of Hell's Hip Pocket and the cow camp at Carrizo Creek there lie three high ridges and three broad valleys, all running north and south from the Peaks to Bronco Mesa--the heart of the upper range; and there in compact bands the invaders held their sheep. From the lower levels they strayed out gradually over the rocky mesa; above they clambered up toward the wooded peaks; but at night the sheepmen worked back to the three ridges and camped close together for defence. After many years of struggle they had at last obtained their legal rights--their sheep were up to the ears in grama, eating out the heart of the cow country--but Jeff Creede was just over the hill, and the Mexicans were afraid. For years now the huge form of "Grande" had loomed before them whenever they entered that forbidden range, and they had always given way before him. And now he had the little man Chico with him, the son of a soldier, so it was said, and a gentleman of _categoria_; he always carried a pistol and his eyes were stern and hard. What would not Chico and Grande do to them, now that they were like bees robbed of their long-hoarded honey, who have nothing left but their stings?