They parted. When Matthews and Robin reached the high bench across the canyon the other two were near the drop-off into the river, riding fast. Robin reflected that if there were any Bar M Bar cows with unbranded calves in that river flat they would probably stay there. But orders were orders. He couldn’t go one place when he had been told to go elsewhere. A range boss’s word was law on round-up. If a “rep” didn’t like it he could cut his string and go home. Bunches of cattle dotted the long, narrow plateau they had gained. The wild brutes fled before them until the dry soil smoked under their feet. All they had to do was lope and yell now and then. The cattle could only follow that bench north to the round-up ground. Where Tex and Robin crossed the canyon was the only possible crossing in ten miles. But though Steele had ordered them to work back from there, between them and the river the bench held other cattle. Tex rested both hands on his saddle horn and looked south. He frowned. A cow-puncher on circle is supposed to get all the cattle in sight except on ground he knows will be swept by other riders. They were both aware of that. Robin didn’t need to ask what Tex was thinking. “He wasn’t none too clear, was he, kid?” Tex remarked. “He said to work back. But if one of ’em don’t come up behind us there’ll be a parcel of stuff missed.” “Let’s linger awhile,” Robin suggested. “See if one of ’em shows up. They’ll be in the river bottom by now.” They got down off their horses, sought the shade of a clump of jack pine. Half an hour passed. Those distant cattle fed undisturbed. “If they came up the canyon they ought to be abreast of here now.” Robin broke a long silence. “Yep. Let’s ride,” Tex muttered. “Which way?” “Look into the canyon first.” A view of that deep gorge, straight-walled, floored with sage, gave sight of cattle feeding quietly between them and the river. “No riders in sight,” Tex commented. “Maybe they went swimmin’. Reckon we better get those cattle below us on the bench, kid.” “Mark’ll bawl us out if one of them does come up behind us,” Robin observed. “But I ain’t workin’ for the Block S. I don’t want to miss cattle.” “We ain’t supposed to miss cattle,” Tex replied. “As a matter of fact I remember now that a man can’t ride up on this bench from the river bottom. Steele and Thatcher got to come up the canyon. I was mixed up on that proposition a couple of years ago on a pack trip down here. Mark knows that too. I guess he forgot.” They turned and rode south. Because to ride down the bench openly would start every hoof running toward the blind cliff overlooking the Big Muddy they sought the farther side and worked along under the brow, out of sight, until they judged they were south of the last bunch. It was rough going on steep sidehills with loose earth crumbling underfoot, gullies to scramble over, thickets of jack pine to scrub their faces with low branches.