“Here you are, Trevy!” said Joel hospitably, as the collie made a single dainty mouthful of the offering. “An’ when we go to town, next time, I’ll see can I git you some pound cake. Pound cake is dretful good. You’ll sure relish it a whole lot, Trevy. Mighty few millionaires’ dogs gits to eat pound cake, I reckon. Then--Say, Royce,” he broke off, snarlingly, as he caught the sound of his partner’s return, “call this durn cuss out onto the stoop with you. He’s tromplin’ dust all over the clean floor. Dogs don’t b’long in the house, anyhow. You’ve got him pampered till he’s no good to no one. He thinks he’s folks. Take him outside!” “I forgot to tell you,” said Royce, coming into the room, red and shining from his wash, “I met up with Chris Hibben, over at Santa Carlotta. He was coming out of the sheriff’s office; and he was mad as hops. He says thirty of his beef cattle were run off the Triple Bar last night. Three of his cow-ponies were lifted right out of the home corral, too, he says.” “Strayed, most likely,” suggested Joel, with no sign of interest in his neighbor’s mishap. “Chris says not,” denied Royce. “He says they were lifted. Says it’s rustlers.” At the ominous word, Joel Fenno’s crooked brows twitched. Nobody in the sheep-and-cattle country, in those days, could hear the name “rustlers” without a twinge. In spite of watchfulness and in defiance of all law, livestock thieves had not yet been stamped out. They worked, as a rule, in gangs and with consummate cleverness. Their system of theft might vary, as occasion demanded. But whatever the system chanced to be, it had a way of circumventing the best efforts of ranchers. It was easy for crafty and organized bands to lift large or small bunches of livestock from a vast range; to drive it to the nearest safe hiding place; and thence run it across the border or sell it to some dishonest wholesale butcher’s agent. There was much money in such an enterprise;--much money and occasional death. For the captured rustler expected and received short shrift. The Black Angel Trail was the local livestock thief’s route to wealth. Long and disputatiously the Dos Hermanos partners talked over the news; Fenno as usual discrediting its truth and Royce increasingly impressed by it. The conference ended with an arrangement to send word to every herder on the Dos Hermanos ranch to keep strict guard for a night or two, and to carry a shotgun. “Treve,” said Royce, at bedtime, as the collie prepared to stretch himself as usual on the rag mat at the foot of his master’s bunk, “you’ve got to do guard duty to-night. It’s outdoors for yours. There are too many sheep in the home fold, just now, for us to take any chances. The other dogs are out on the range; and they’ve got to stay there while this scare lasts. All but Nellie. She’s no good, Joel says, except when you can work with her. It’s up to you to keep an eye on the fold. Outside, son! _Watch!_”