"Glad to meet you, sir," said Swope, offering a greasy hand that smelled of sheep dip. "Nice man, the old judge--here, _umbre_, put that bag on straight! Three hundred and _fifteen_? Well I know a dam' sight better--excuse me, boys--here, put that bag on again, and weigh it right!" "Well," observed Creede, glancing at his friend as the combat raged unremittingly, "I guess we might as well pull. His busy day, you understand. Nice feller, though--you'll like 'im." Once more the glint of quiet deviltry came into his eyes, but he finished out the jest soberly. "Comes from a nice Mormon family down in Moroni--six brothers--all sheepmen. You'll see the rest of the boys when they come through next month--but Jim's the best." There was something in the sardonic smile that accompanied this encomium which set Hardy thinking. Creede must have been thinking too, for he rode past the kitchen without stopping, cocking his head up at the sun as if estimating the length of their journey. "Oh, did you want to git somethin' to eat?" he inquired innocently. "No? That's good. That sheep smell kinder turns my stomach." And throwing the spurs into Bat Wings he loped rapidly toward the summit, scowling forbiddingly in passing at a small boy who was shepherding the stray herd. For a mile or two he said nothing, swinging his head to scan the sides of the mountains with eyes as keen as an eagle's; then, on the top of the last roll, he halted and threw his hand out grandly at the panorama which lay before them. "There she lays," he said, as if delivering a funeral oration, "as good a cow country as God ever made--and now even the jack rabbits have left it. D'ye see that big mesa down there?" he continued, pointing to a broad stretch of level land, dotted here and there with giant cactus, which extended along the river. "I've seen a thousand head of cattle, fat as butter, feedin' where you see them _sahuaros_, and now look at it!" He threw out his hand again in passionate appeal, and Hardy saw that the mesa was empty. "There was grass a foot high," cried Creede in a hushed, sustained voice, as if he saw it again, "and flowers. Me and my brothers and sisters used to run out there about now and pick all kinds, big yaller poppies and daisies, and these here little pansies--and ferget-me-nots. God! I wish I could ferget 'em--but I've been fightin' these sheep so long and gittin' so mean and ugly them flowers wouldn't mean no more to me now than a bunch of jimson weeds and stink squashes. But hell, what's the use?" He threw out his hands once more, palms up, and dropped them limply. "That's old Pablo Moreno's place down there," he said, falling back abruptly into his old way. "We'll stop there overnight--I want to help git that wagon across the river when Rafael comes in bymeby, and we'll go up by trail in the mornin'."