They went about their preparations. They ate their breakfast in the unsavory kitchen, then José rode off to the ranch where Newt Hillguard kept his little flock of thirty Shropshires. There was no particular good in making full explanation to Newt. He was a cattleman surely, his little flock was just a diversion with him, but he might not take fondly to any plan that would make sheep killers out of Fargo’s pack of dogs. Some night they might escape from their yard and visit his own little flock. “The boys say they’re tired of beef and want a mutton blow-out,” José explained, “and I’m sent over here to supply it. Will you sell me one of them sheep of yours?” “Seems funny to me,” Newt returned, “that gang of Fargo’s wantin’ mutton. But I suppose I can sell you one.” “Any old ewe’ll do,” José went on. “We don’t want ’em to like it so well they’ll want it often. The one you can sell me cheapest. We’ll want it alive, too, ’cause we ain’t goin’ to have him for a day or two. And once I’ve got to pack him on the horse, maybe I’d better take a lamb.” The money changed hands, Newt gave in exchange a few pounds of living flesh that blatted feebly and struggled in José’s arms—with a strange, frantic terror—as if in premonition of its doom. The lips of the man set in a straight, cruel line, and he rode with an unjustified swiftness back to Fargo’s house. There was only one element of mercy in the unmentionable scene that followed in the little, tightly fenced enclosure behind Fargo’s house. None whatever dwelt in the drawn faces of the men, or in the savage, white-fanged creatures that leaped so fiercely at the picket fence as the men approached. But the time, at least, was swift. It went almost too fast for Fargo’s liking. There was only a single second of strange and dreadful clamor within the enclosure, a glimpse of white in the ravening circle of browns and blacks, a smear of red and a faint cry that the men strained to hear but which was lost in the baying of the dogs. The pack had been given its lesson. Fargo foresaw in their glaring eyes—as they came rushing back to the palings again—the success of his plan. “Get inside the house and shut the door,” he commanded. “I can’t answer for this blood-thirsty crowd. And do it quick.” For Fargo knew that the sooner he got started the more successful would be his undertaking. He didn’t want their wild excitement to have a chance to die down. The great hounds saw his gun in his arms, a pungent stain of red was still upon their fangs, and they seemed to know that rapturous events were in store for them. The Mexican withdrew, Fargo unlatched the gate of the enclosure, and the animals leaped forth around him. In a moment he had swung on his horse; and followed by the crying pack galloped up the trail.