His face was white and caked with dust, the dirt lay clotted in his beard, and only the whites of his eyes, rolling and sanguinary, gave evidence of his humanity; his shirt, half torn from his body by plunging through the cat-claws, hung limp and heavy with sweat; and the look of him was that of a madman, beside himself with rage. The dirt, the sweat, the grime, were as heavy on Hardy, and his eyes rolled like a negro's beneath the mask of dust, but weariness had overcome his madness and he leaned forward upon the horn. They glanced at each other indifferently and then slumped down to endure the long ten miles which lay between them and home. It had been a stern fight and the excitement had lulled their hunger, but now the old, slow pang gnawed at their vitals and they rolled like drunkards in the saddle. It was a clear, velvety night, and still, after the wind of the day. Their horses jogged dumbly along, throwing up their heads at every step from weariness, and the noises of the night fell dully upon their jaded ears. But just as they turned into Carrizo Creek canyon, Creede suddenly reined in old Bat Wings and held up his hand to Hardy. "Did you hear that?" he asked, still listening. "There! Didn't you hear that gun go off? Well, I did--and it was a thirty-thirty, too, over there toward the Pocket." "Those herders are always shooting away their ammunition," said Hardy peevishly. "Come on, let's get back to camp." "They don't shoot in the night-time, though," grumbled Creede, leading off again. "I'll bet ye some of them Greasers has seen a ghost. Say," he cried, "the boys may be out doin' some night ridin'!" But when they rode into camp every man was in his blankets. "Hey, what's all that shootin' goin' on over there?" he called, waking up the entire outfit in his excitement. "Sheepmen," responded some sleeper briefly. "Cleanin' their guns, mebbe," suggested another, yawning. "Did you move 'em, Jeff?" "You betcher neck!" replied Creede promptly, "and I'm goin' back in the mornin', too."