Thus we sat waiting, I for Scipio to come out of the house with the information he had gone in for, while the boy waited for nothing. _Waiting for nothing_ was stamped plain upon him from head to foot, as it is stamped upon certain figures all the world over--figures seated in clubs, standing at corners, leaning against railroad stations and boxes of freight, staring out of windows. Those in the clubs die at last, and it is mentioned; the others of course die, too, only it is not mentioned. This boy’s eyebrows were insufficient, and his front was as ragged as his back. Presently the same man put his head out of the door. “You after sheep?” I nodded. “I could a-showed you sheep. Rams. Horns as big as your thigh--bigger’n _your_ thigh. That was before tenderfeet came in and spoiled this country. Counted seven thousand on that there butte one morning before breakfast. Seven thousand and twenty-three, if you want exact figgers. Set on this porch and killed sheep whenever I wanted to. Some of ’em used to come on the roof. Counted eight rams on the roof one morning before breakfast. Quit your staring!” This was addressed to the boy on the corral. “Why, you’re not a-going without another?” This convivial question was to Scipio, who now came out of the house and across to me with news of failure. “I could a-showed you sheep--” resumed the man, but I was attending to Scipio. “He don’t know anything,” said Scipio, “nor any of ’em in there. But we haven’t got this country rounded up yet. He’s just come out of a week of snake fits, and, by the way it looks, he’ll enter on another about to-morrow morning. But whiskey can’t stop _him_ lying.” “Bad weather,” said the man, watching us make ready to continue our long drive. “Lots o’ lightning loose in the air right now. Kind o’ weather you’re liable to see fire on the horns of the stock some night.” This sounded like such a promising invention that I encouraged him. “We have nothing like that in the East.” “H’m. Guess you’ve not. Guess you never seen sixteen thousand steers with a light at the end of every horn in the herd.” “Are they going to catch that man?” inquired Scipio, pointing to the yellow poster. “Catch him? Them? No! But I could tell ’em where he’s went. He’s went to Idaho.” “Thought the ’76 outfit had sold Auctioneer,” Scipio continued conversationally. “That stallion? No! But I could tell ’em they’d ought to.” This was his good-by to us; he removed himself and his alcoholic omniscience into the house. “Wait,” I said to Scipio, as he got in and took the reins from me. “I’m going to deal some magic to you. Look at that poster. No, not the stallion, the yellow one. Keep looking at it hard.” While he obeyed me I made solemn passes with my hands over his head. I kept it up, and the boy sat on the corral bars, watching stupidly. “Now look anywhere you please.”