Aleck Douglas, having questioned the crew as Tom had suggested, and having inexorably ridden through the herd--in search of brands that had been "worked," or for other evidence of the unlawful acquisition of wealth, rather than in hope of finding his spotted yearling--rode away with the parting threat that he would "gang to the shuriff and hae a talk wi' him." Tom had advised him of one or two other destinations where he hoped the Douglas would arrive without any delay whatever, and the branding proceeded rather slowly with the crew three men short. Duke and Mel Wilson rode in about three o'clock with a few cows and calves which they had gleaned from some brushy draw to cover their real errand. By the time they had snatched a hasty meal at the wagon a mile away, and had caught up fresh horses, the afternoon's work was nearly over. A little earlier than usual, Tom kicked the branding fire apart, ordered the herd thrown on water and grazed back to the bed-ground that had been used during round-up time ever since he could remember, and rode slowly toward camp, whither the lucky ones not on herd were speeding. Cheyenne, Tom observed, seemed in a greater hurry than the others, and he beckoned to him a slim, swarthy-skinned youth who answered to the euphonious name of Sam Pretty Cow, who was three-quarters Indian and forgiven the taint for the ability to ride anything he ever tried to ride, rope anything he ever swung his loop at, and for his unfailing good humor which set him far above his kind. "Cheyenne's in a hurry to-night, Sam." "Yeah. Ride hell out of his horse. I dunno, me." Sam grinned amiably at his boss. "I wish you would camp on his trail, Sam. He'll maybe ride somewhere to-night." "Yeah. Uh-huh. You bet," acquiesced Sam, and leaned forward a little, meaning to gallop after Cheyenne. "Hold on a minute! What did Scotty have to say, Sam?" "Him? Talk a lot about spotty yearlin' he says is dead. Asking who kills them calf. Search me, I dunno." "Hear any talk among the boys about beef rustling?" "Uh-huh. First I hear is them sour-face asking me who kills them critter. Me, I dunno." "If you hear anything about it, Sam, let me know. Scotty thinks we done it." "Yeah. Uh-huh. Anybody does something mean, everybody says, 'Damn Lorrigans done it.' Too much talk in the Black Rim. Talking under their hats all the time but no liking to fight them Lorrigans. Uh-huh. They're scared, you bet." "They'll have something to get scared at, if they ain't careful. I'm getting tired of it," said Tom gloomily. "Yeah, you bet!" agreed Sam, his voice all sympathy. Then seeing that Tom had no immediate intention of saying more, he touched his horse with his long-shanked spurs and hurried on to "camp on the trail of Cheyenne."