Fadeaway reined around and took a direct line for the nearest timber. Halfway across the open he saw the Mexican boy running toward him. He leaned forward in the saddle and hung his spurs in his pony's sides. A quick beat of hoofs and he was within the shadow of the forest. The next thing was to avoid pursuit. He changed his course and rode toward the heart of the forest. He would take an old and untraveled bridle-trail to the Blue. He was riding in a rocky hollow when he thought he heard the creak of saddle-leather. He glanced back. No one was following him. Farther on he stopped. He was certain that he had again heard the sound. As he topped the rise he saw Corliss riding toward him. The rancher had evidently swung from the Concho trail and was making his way directly toward the unused trail which Fadeaway rode. The cowboy became doubly alert. He shifted a little in the saddle, sitting straight, his right hand resting easily on his hip. Corliss drew rein and they faced each other. There was something about the rancher's grim, silent attitude that warned Fadeaway. Yet he grinned and waved a greeting. "How!" he said, as though he were meeting an old friend. Corliss nodded briefly. He sat gazing at Fadeaway with an unreadable expression. "Got the lock-jaw?" queried Fadeaway, his pretended heartiness vanishing. Corliss allowed himself to smile, a very little. "You better ride back with me," he said, quietly. Fadeaway laughed. "I'm takin' orders from the Blue, these days," he said. "Mebby you forgot." "No, I haven't." "And I'm headed for the Blue," continued the cowboy. "Goin' my way?" "You're on the wrong trail," asserted Corliss. "You've been riding the wrong trail ever since you left the Concho." "Uhuh. Well, I been keepin' clear of the sheep camps, at that." "Don't know about that," said Corliss, easily. Fadeaway was too shrewd to have recourse to his gun. He knew that Corliss was the quicker man, and he realized that, even should he get the better of a six-gun argument, the ultimate result would be outlawry and perhaps death. He wanted to get away from that steady, heart-searching gaze that held him. "Sheep business is lookin' up," he said, with an attempt at jocularity. "We'll ride back and have a talk with Loring," said Corliss. "Some one put a band of his sheep into the canon, not two hours ago. Maybe you know something about it." "Me? What you dreaming anyhow?" "I'm not. It looks like your work." "So you're tryin' to hang somethin' onto me, eh? Well, you want to call around early--you're late." "No, I'm the first one on the job. Did you stampede Loring's sheep?" "Did I stampede the love-makin'?" sneered Fadeaway. Corliss shortened rein and drew close to the cowboy. "Just explain that," he said. "Oh, I don' know. You the boss of creation?"