The two men behind him began discussing the cattle market, and the stage slid down the side of the first mesa of the Wyoming bad lands and into the coulee, or dry creek, at the bottom. The level road was left behind. Up hill and down plunged the horses ahead of the rocking, tipping stage. There was no regular road. A dozen tracks showed the differing routes of as many drivers. To Ross it seemed as if destruction were imminent every time they came to the top of one of the short, steep hills. But Andy jammed on the brake hard, and, giving a peculiar little whistle, yelled carelessly, "Git out of this." Presently Andy took advantage of the rattle of wheels and hoofs to say to Ross: "Steele is boss of the Gale's Ridge work up to Camp. They keep open all winter; t'other company shuts down." "Shuts down?" repeated Ross. "Yep, has to. Men go down t' Cody t' work on the Project. Hard work to keep men in Camp through the winter. When the railroad goes up there, 'twill be different." Some one inside the stage struck a match. "On time, ain't you, Andy?" asked Steele's voice; "it's twelve-thirty." "Yep," returned the driver. "Here's Dry Creek." The road, a well-defined track here, was hemmed in between a creek-bed on one hand and a hill on the other. On top of the hill, silhouetted against the star-studded sky, appeared a wagon with a white bellying canvas top. Around it, covering the hilltop and the side clear down to the track was a soft white moving mass that caused Ross to give a startled exclamation. "Why--that looks like--it _is_ sheep!" he ejaculated. "Sheep by the hundreds." "Sheep's the word!" returned the driver. "This is Sheepy's layout. That's his wagon up yon. He herds fer parties in Cody. There's nigh seven hundred of them sheep. Never seen such a flock before, did ye?" Before Ross could reply, the stage swung around a corner of the hill and Andy, with a sharp whistle, drew up the leaders abruptly. They were in an open space in front of the stage camp, half cabin and half dugout driven into the hillside. Beside the dugout was a low, stout corral, outside of which were a haystack and a jumble of bales of hay. As the stage stopped, the door of the dugout opened, and a man loomed large against a dim light within. But all this Ross did not notice at the time. His attention was riveted on the horse just ahead ridden by the stranger. Around and around it whirled, unmindful of the quirt and spur of the rider. "Pretty ridin'," remarked Andy, spitting appreciatively over the wheel. The men inside the stage clambered out with grunts at their stiffened limbs, and leaned against the wheels watching. The man in the doorway stepped out, and thrust his hands into his pockets, and looked calmly while the horse placed its four feet together and humped its back with a momentum which sent the rider high in the air.