"Huh?" inquired Creede, shoving back his hat and staring. "Did I hear you say 'move 'em'? Well--er--I thought you left your gun at home," he suggested guardedly. "That's right," admitted Hardy, "but don't you let that worry you any. I told you I'd help move those sheep, and I'll do it! We don't need guns, anyhow. Why, I'd just as soon tackle a rattlesnake bare-handed as go after Jasp Swope with my six-shooter. That's just what he's looking for, boy, with all those thirty-thirties behind him, and he'll have plenty of witnesses there to swear us into Yuma, too. I tell you, Jeff, I've been thinking this over, and I believe my boss is right." "Sure," said Creede, showing his teeth in the twilight. "Say, let up on that, will you?" exclaimed Hardy irritably. "I'm talking business. Now you let me tell you something." He paused, and fixed his eye on the dust cloud, intently. "I've moved that many sheep twice," he said, throwing out his hand, "and I left my gun at home." "That's right," conceded Creede. "Well now, I'll tell you what I'll do," continued Hardy. "If you'll leave your gun at home too and stay with me on this I'll undertake to shoot the last sheep out through West Pass inside of a week. And the only chance we take is of getting shot at or arrested for assault and battery. The Territorial Prison end of this gun business never did appeal me, anyway." "No--nor me either! But what's the scheme?" The big cowboy leaned forward eagerly, his eyes flashing as he half guessed the plan. "We ride out together," said Hardy, his voice far away, as if he saw it in his mind's eye, "unarmed--and we notify every sheep-herder we see to move. If Jasp Swope or any of his men kill us while we're unarmed it'll be cold-blooded murder, and there'll be witnesses to prove it. And if the sheep don't move, _we'll move 'em_! What kind of a crime is that, anyway--to drive sheep off the public range? There isn't an officer of the law within sixty miles, anyhow; and if anybody pulls a gun on us we can slug him in self-defence." "Sure," agreed Creede, "but suppose one of them big-headed Chihuahua Mexicans should happen to shoot you?" "Well then, I'd be dead," said Hardy soberly. "But wouldn't you rather be dead than shut up in that hell-hole down at Yuma?" "Yes!" cried Creede, holding out his hands as if taking an oath. "I would, by God!" "Well, come on then!" said Hardy, and they shook hands on it like brothers. When the _rodeo_ outfit was gathered together in the morning Jefferson Creede deliberately unstrapped his cartridge belt and threw his pistol back onto his bed. Then he winked at his partner as if, rightly understood, the action was in the nature of a joke, and led the way to Pocket Butte. "You fellows rake the ridges to Bullpit Valley," he said, briefly assigning every man to his post. "Rufe 'n me'll hold 'em up for you about four o'clock, but don't rush the funeral--we're goin' to move a few sheep first."