So genuine was his disgust that Boone Morgan plunged through the cold river at nightfall and took the long trail for Geronimo, but the memory of his last words lingered in the minds of the warring cowmen for many a day, and though Pecos Dalhart was known to be over in New Mexico somewhere his Monkey-wrench herd remained safe in Lost Dog Cañon. As for the sheriff, having abandoned all idea of peace, he transacted his business in the mountains by deputy and sat quiet in Geronimo, waiting only for the first break to come back and make his word good. It had a wonderful restraining influence upon Crit and Upton, this prolonged and ominous absence, but as spring came on and the new crop of calves began to gambol on the mesas, the old spirit of grab rose up and overleapt the dull fear of last winter. Once more both Crit and Upton began to take on nervy cowboys—men who by their boasts or by their silence let it be known that they were game—and the cow-camp at Verde Crossing sheltered gun-men from all over the Far West. From the Tonto country there came rumors that Upton was bringing in bad men from Pleasant Valley, fresh from the bloody combats where the Grahams and Tewkesburys met. Bill Todhunter rode in when the round-up was well begun and looked the outfits over with grave unconcern, dropping out of sight on the trail and turning up at Geronimo two days later to report that all was well in Lost Dog Cañon. There were no deputy sheriffs in disguise on this round-up—both Crittenden and Upton satisfied themselves of that early in the day—and as the work went on and the lust for spoils grew with each branded maverick, the war spirit crept in and grew apace.