one. "Well, say what's to be done," he said. "I'm not goin' back after that other dog."
"I'm not tellin' you to, either. Your job is to stay away from there." Fargo suddenly leaned forward, his eyes burning. "You know what I'd like to see?" he whispered. "I'd like to have that Crowson girl ride up there in a day or two and find every one of those damned woollies—every one, not three or four hundred of 'em—dead and rotting in the grass. Then people'd know this was a cattle country. Since we've gone as far as we have, the thing to do is to go all the way. And we might work it yet."
José's face showed that he was interested.
"Poison?" he asked.
"You can't never tell about poison. Sheep are queer critters. When they're well fed they'll shy of anything that tastes queer. Think again "
"The only other way's rifles—and that would take a carload of shells. But I tell you—the coyotes will slash a lot of 'em and run the rest to death."
"Maybe—and maybe not. A coyote don't run sheep. They kill all they can, and then start to eatin'. Of course there's exceptions. It takes a dog to slash a hundred of 'em in one night—and run the rest "
And at that instant his words were drowned out. A strange, formidable cry reached them from behind the house: a long, far-carrying
