was, was mostly only the deepening of the lines on their dark faces.
This tenseness, this silence, these submerged passions pointed to but one end. And the crime would not be outside the pale of the laws of man alone, but the basic laws of the forest as well. The feast of death was to take place after all,—the same delight of which Broken Fang, the puma, was even then dreaming beside the sheep camp on the far headwaters of Silver Creek. But men, not wild beasts, were to be the debauchers.
"It's the simplest way yet," Fargo had whispered. The veins stood out in his brutal hands. "That pack of mine are devils—there's no other word for 'em—and once they get goin', they'd sweep through that flock of woollies like lightning. You've heard of sheep-killin' dogs before "
"Yes—but your dogs ain't never been sheep killers," the Mexican protested.
"What of that? They can learn fast enough. They'd tear a man to pieces just as quick if I didn't keep 'em chained. I don't see why I didn't teach 'em long ago—they'd be worth a thousand coyotes for keepin' this country clear of sheep. Maybe you don't know about sheep-killing dogs. You might not have heard that in the sheep country in the East one dog that once got the habit will spoil the business for miles around. You see, José, most animals don't kill
