The dog slunk through the timber and disappeared. The cowboy rode slowly, peering through the timber. Presently came the trample of frightened sheep--a shrill bleating, and then silence. Fadeaway loped out into the open. The sheep were running in all directions. He whistled the dog to him. Chance's muzzle dripped red. The dog slunk round behind the horse, knowing that he had done wrong, despite the fact that he had been set upon the sheep. From the edge of the timber some one shouted. The cowboy turned and saw a herder running toward him. He reined around and sat waiting grimly. When the herder was within speaking distance. Fadeaway's hand dropped to his hip and the herder stopped. He gesticulated and spoke rapidly in Spanish. Fadeaway answered, but in a kind of Spanish not taught in schools or heard in indoor conversation. The herder pressed forward. "Why, how! Fernando. Now what's bitin' you?" "The sheep! He kill the lamb!" cried the herder. Fadeaway laughed. "Did, eh? Well, I tried to call him off. Reckon you heard me whistle him, didn't you?" The cowboy's assertion was so palpably an insult that old Fernando's anger overcame his caution. He stepped forward threateningly. Fadeaway's gun was out and a splash of dust leaped up at Fernando's feet. The herder turned and ran. Fadeaway laughed and swung away at a lope. When he arrived at the Concho he unsaddled, turned his pony into the corral, and called to Chance. He was at the water-trough washing the dog's muzzle when John Corliss appeared. Fadeaway straightened up. He knew what was coming and knew that he deserved it. The effects of his conviviality at the Blue had worn off, leaving him in an ugly mood. Corliss looked him over from head to heel. Then he glanced at the dog. Chance turned his head down and sideways, avoiding his master's eye. Fadeaway laughed. "You get your time!" said Corliss. "You're dam' right!" retorted Fadeaway. "And you're damned wrong! Chance knows better than to tackle sheep unless he's put up to it. You needn't explain. Bud will give you your time." Then Corliss turned to Shoop who had just ridden in. "Chain that dog up and keep him chained up! And give Fadeaway his time, right up to the minute!" Shoop dropped easily from the saddle, led his horse toward the corral, and whistled a sprightly ditty as he unsaddled him. Fadeaway rolled a cigarette and strolled over to the bunk-house where he retailed his visit and its climax to a group of interested punchers. "So he tied the can onto you, eh? And for settin' Chance on the sheep? He ought to be much obliged to you, Fade. They ain't room for sheep and cattle both on this here range. We're gettin' backed plumb into the sunset." Fadeaway nodded to the puncher who had spoken. "And ole man Loring's just run in twenty thousand head from New Mex.," continued the puncher. "Wonder how Corliss likes that?"