As a government scout Boone Morgan had proved that he was fearless, but they did not keep him for that—they kept him because he brought his men back to camp, every time. The effrontery of Pecos Dalhart's daring to challenge his authority had stirred his choler, but when Bill Todhunter met him at the river and told him how the ground lay he passed up the temptation to pot Pecos as he crawled out of his hole in the rock, and rode for the lower crossing of the Salagua. The trail which the hardy revolutionist of Lost Dog Cañon was guarding was, indeed, the only one on the north side of the river. From the pasture where his cows were hidden the Salagua passed down a box cañon so deep and precipitous that the mountain sheep could not climb it, and even with his cowboy-deputies Boone Morgan could hardly hope to run the Monkey-wrench cows out over the peaks without drawing the fire of their owner. But there was a trail—and it was a bad one—that led across the desert from the Salagua until it cut the old Pinal trail, far to the south, and that historic highway had led many a war party of Apaches through the very heart of the Superstitions. East it ran, under the frowning bastions of the great mountain, and then northeast until it came out just across the river from Pecos Dalhart's pasture. It was a long ride—sixty miles, and half of it over the desert—but the river was at its lowest water, just previous to the winter rains, and once there Boone Morgan felt certain they could make out to cross the cattle. "And mind you, boys," he said to his posse, as they toiled up the wearisome grade, "don't you leave a single cow in that pasture or I'm going to be sore as a goat. The county pays mileage for this, and the taxes will be a few cents, too—but I'm going to put one rustler out of business at the start by a hell-roaring big sheriff's sale. I'm going to show some of these Texas hold-ups that Arizona ain't no cow-thief's paradise—not while old Boone's on the job." The second night saw them camped on the edge of the river just across from the pasture, and in the morning they crossed on a riffle, every man with his orders for the raid. By noon the cattle began to come down the valley, tail up and running before the drive; not a word was spoken, for each man knew his business, but when the thirsty herd of Monkey-wrench cows finally waded out into the river to drink, a sudden rush of horsemen from behind crowded the point animals into swimming water, and before the leaders knew what had happened they were half way across the river and looking for a landing. "_Ho—ho—ho—ho—ho!_" shouted the sheriff, riding in to turn them upstream, and behind him a chorus of cowboy yells urged the last bewildered stragglers into the current. They crossed, cows and calves alike, and while the jubilant posse came splashing after them or rode howling up to the ford Boone Morgan poured the water out of his boots and smiled pleasantly.