The affair in regard to the flocks was no longer merely a business proposition. It had its personal side now. It seemed to him that its completion was the only desire he had left. He hated the browsing sheep, he hated Crowson and Crowson’s daughter, but most of all he hated Hugh. There was the man who had defeated all his plans. It was Hugh’s fists that had knocked him to the earth and that had lashed into his face as he lay unconscious. Night after night, week after week, he had sat—savage as one of his own hounds—staring into the fire. The flames had leaped: and he knew that some time in their lurid glow they would show him his course of action. His only wish was to make payment. The time in which he might strike was almost up. October—when the detachment of forest rangers would take over the district and protect such lawful industries as Crowson’s—was almost at hand. The thought seemed to drive him insane. And one night, when September was almost done, inspiration came to him. A cowman had come in, complaining of the drought. The streams where his cattle fed were drying up. “Never seen the woods so dry in all my days,” the man had said. “Just like tinder. And already most of the cattle have crossed over Eagle Ridge into the Bear Canyon country.” It was enough. He had given Fargo his hint. Certain orders had been dispatched: to drive all the remaining herds into the same region,—a district far from Crowson’s range in Smoky Land. And then he had sent for José. The Mexican was the one man on whom Fargo felt he might rely. José had no ridiculous limits as to conduct, no notch of brutality and crime above which he would not go. The cowboys who worked for him, however, weren’t of the same metal. They were faithful enough in a good open-and-shut fight, fair warfare between the cattlemen and sheepmen. They were willing to take any decent risk, and their rancor against the “woollies” was bitter enough for general purposes. Partly it was a matter of mob psychology, partly because they thought their own jobs and prospects depended upon the range being kept open for the cattle herds. But these cowmen were rather inclined to play too fair; and cold and premeditated murder was not, among them, being done. The deadly desert man, however, had no such compunctions. He had been the logical man to send for after that last talk with Dan the herder. And he was the logical man now. Fargo had already drawn his maps. In his own broken handwriting he indicated the various ranges and the larger streams that flowed between them. Fargo knew the passes of Smoky Land. And the two men went over them with singular care as to detail, with infinite patience such as they had never given to any of their lesser projects. They discussed the directions of the prevailing winds, the “lay” of the canyons, even the location of the most impassable thickets. It took the whole night and many glasses of burning liquor to perfect their plans.