The beans had been boiled and eaten, the tin dishes and cups, pots and kettles and iron ovens dumped into the mess wagon, and two crews of men were at work jacking up wagons and greasing axle skeins, when the space at the north mouth of the corral was suddenly filled by as fine a horseman as ever galloped over the plains. It was Sash, dressed in the costume of the real cowboy of the long-horn cattle day--sombrero, chaps, Rowell spurs, a Mexican lariat properly adjusted over the horn of his elaborate double-cinched cutting-out saddle--everything was perfection. He was astride a fine big black American horse--not a regulation cow pony--a shiny, deep bay charger with a white left ankle half way to the knee from the fetlock, and a spot of white the size of a hand on the face. He came on a gallop and stopped so short at the corral mouth that, had he not known his business, he would have been thrown over the chains. But that was the style of riding. Plunge ahead to the object or point desired--then stop short. He waved his hat to Martin, our wagon boss, to come to the corral chains. "Someone from your outfit," shouted Sash, "has been out in one of our herds and shot a half dozen yearlings and two three-year-old steers. Aren't you satisfied with veal? Say, old man, who did this mean trick?" The acts of a coward are preceded by a queer train of thought, the kingpin of which is fear. Preston knew his disreputable work of butchering among the herd of cattle had been discovered. He knew that Sash, a Texan, was a man of action, and that Sash was fortified with the right on his side, and if justice were meted out it would be some kind of punishment. The revolver in his holster was close to his hand and fear--cowardly fear--overpowered his weak mind. Martin had no time to reply, and the first indication that the coward was to act upon the impulse that would move him was the cry from a bullwhacker: "Don't shoot--don't." Sash, who was looking straight over his horse's head, turned at hearing this just in time to receive a bullet in the hollow spot under his left ear. It passed clean through his head. Both arms flew into the air, his horse sprang forward, and Sash laid upon the ground flat on his back, with arms spread out from his body--dead. His face was ashen white, eyes and mouth closed, both fists clinched. It was young Snow who tied the black charger to a wagon wheel, replacing the bridle with a halter. The horse whinnied, pawed the dirt, and for a time spun around as far as the halter strap would allow, and looked at his prostrate master with what seemed to be almost human intelligence; in fact, his body was soon in a white lather, necessitating a rub-down and then a blanket. He trembled like a leaf and snorted and pawed the earth for an hour. Sash's camp was on the south bank of the Platte. There Preston was delivered by Wagon Boss Martin and a delegation of the bull outfit fellows after he had tried to escape.