"Glad to meet you, sir," said Creede politely. "Well, all they was to it was this: when I rode in there and see that dam' Mexican standin' up on a ledge with his eyes bulgin' out, I says, 'What in hell--_I_ didn't know you was here!' And he says, 'Oh, that's all right.'" "Jest listen to the son-of-a-gun lie!" yelled Jim Swope, beside himself with rage. "_Listen_ to him! He said that was all right, did he? Three thousand head of sheep stompeded--" "Yes," roared Creede, "he said: 'That's all right.' And what's more, there was another Mexican there that heard him! Now how about it, officer; how much have I got to take off this dam' sheep puller before I git the right to talk back? Is he the judge and jury in this matter, or is he just a plain buttinsky?" "I'll have to ask you gentlemen to key down a little," replied the deputy noncommittally, "and let's get through with this as soon as possible. Now, Mr. Creede, you seem to be willing to talk about this matter. I understand that there was some shots fired at the time you speak of." "Sure thing," replied Creede. "Juan took a couple of shots at me as I was goin' down the canyon. He looked so dam' funny, sittin' up on that ledge like a monkey-faced owl, that I couldn't help laughin', and of course it riled him some. But that's all right--I wouldn't hold it up against a dead man." The deputy sheriff laughed in spite of himself, and the coroner chuckled, too. The death of a Mexican sheep-herder was not a very sombre matter to gentlemen of their profession. "I suppose you were armed?" inquired the coroner casually. "I had my six-shooter in my shaps, all right." "Ah, is that the gun? What calibre is it?" "A forty-five." The officers of the law glanced at each other knowingly, and the deputy turned back toward the ranch. "The deceased was shot with a thirty-thirty," observed the coroner briefly, and there the matter was dropped. "Umm, a thirty-thirty," muttered Creede, "now who in--" He paused and nodded his head, and a look of infinite cunning came into his face as he glanced over his shoulder at the retreating posse. "Bill Johnson!" he said, and then he laughed--but it was not a pleasant laugh. CHAPTER XXII PORTENTS OF WAR There were signs of impending war on Bronco Mesa. As God sent the rain and the flowers and grass sprang up they grappled with each other like murderers, twining root about root for the water, fighting upward for the light--and when it was over the strongest had won. Every tree and plant on that broad range was barbed and fanged against assault; every creature that could not flee was armed for its own defence; it was a land of war, where the strongest always won. What need was there for words? Juan Alvarez was dead, shot from some distant peak while rounding up his sheep--and his sheep, too, were dead.