“Just this, Sweeny. I want you to git. Git! Savvy the English? See that ditch over yonder? Take your bunch of Mexicans on the other side. And keep them there. It’s healthy.” “Humph!” sneered the other. “Supposin’ I refuse?” But the man said no more; he looked into the eyes of Billy Magee and backed away. “What’s the idea, Billy; have you gone mad?” “Kinda,” said the cowboy. “And I’m goin’ t’ get madder. This is dog days and I’ve been bitten--by a dog. Here! I’ll help you get that bunch moving.” The gun barked. A fork of hay was rising up from a fresh load. The bullet cut the spring rope. The mass of alfalfa dropped back to the wagon. A splatter of Spanish followed. Billy Magee rode up to the stack. “Come. Vamoose! Take ’em out of here, Sweeny!” For a minute there was silence--then consternation. The men stumbled out of the stack and began unhooking the butt chains. They all knew Billy Magee. He was the best-natured man in the country. Everybody knew him. Billy had gone crazy. Only one man stopped to remonstrate. “Wait,” he said. “You, Billy. You go the loco.” He pointed to his head. “Mebbe better for to have drink. Mebbe so”--he looked up at the sun and wiped his head--“_caliente_!” “You bet I’m hot,” snapped the cowboy; “but it’s not the sun. You get down and help with those butt chains. Here you----” The gun barked again. The frightened Mexican rolled headfirst off the load to the shelter behind the horses. The whole outfit marched ahead; behind came the foreman, and back of him Billy. The alfalfa was waist-high. “Fine lot of grass,” commented the cowboy. The other had recovered his courage; knowing Billy he had not crossed him. There is wisdom in discretion--also safety. “What’s the idea? What’cha pullin’ off? Y’ can’t get by with this kinda stuff--not nowadays. Wait till Holman hears; he’ll come howling.” “We ain’t arguin’,” said Billy. “I told you I am mad. Ain’t nothin’ in hell any madder. You go get Holman. When he comes I’m going to eat him--raw.” The foreman scratched his head. “All right, Billy. I’ll send the old boss after you, but I ain’t guarantee who’s goin’ to do the eating. I’ll keep my hands off. Look out for the Mexicans.” Billy Magee did not answer. When the Mexicans had disappeared across the alfalfa he turned back toward the pump house. For some moments he stood by the flow of water--fully a thousand gallons a minute. He did some thinking--varied and yet concentered--deserts, water, homesteaders, girls, dreams, trees, homes--love. A vague feeling had entered the breast of Billy Magee. He had a notion that life might be worth the living. He stepped into the shed; the hum of the motor runed in his ears and called up a tune that was lying at the bottom of his heart. From his pocket he drew the notebook, tore out a leaf and wrote upon it. Then he tacked it on the wall. When he was through he looked up: the pinto was beside the door.