mid-afternoon driving in these fresh accretions to the rapidly growing herd. When the day's work was done and the men lay in their beds, their faces to the sky, the night guards held the cattle through the long and nervous nights, making no unexpected movements, even riding far out to light their cigarettes. Each two hour period saw these guards changed. Quietly two fresh men rode out, exchanged a few words and took their places, and so until the day herders relieved them.
Tom was not popular with the outfit during those laborious days and nights. He worked like ten men, but he was brooding and morose. They watched him surreptitiously, handled him with more than their usual care.
"Just spoilin' for trouble, Tom is."
"Well, let them as wants it have it."
And, almost at the end of the round-up, trouble came.
Supper was over and the tired men lay about, rolling cigarettes and talking. Tom as usual lately was off by himself, his hat pulled down over his eyes, his handsome hawk-like face brooding and unamiable. Slim was washing dishes, when he looked up and said:
"Company coming, Jake."
Jake raised himself on his elbow, but he could see nothing.
"Who is it?"
"Looks like a couple o' Indians."
"Ridin' the grub line, likely," said Jake, and lay back again. But when the Indians rode into camp on their painted horses, it was evident that food was not their object. One was a Reservation policeman, in a dirty khaki uniform with a revolver in his belt; the other was a squaw. She rode cross-saddle, her calico skirts picked up, and her heavy figure sagging as she sat.
That there was trouble brewing was evident, and the men got up and waited. The policeman dismounted. The woman remained as she was. Jake went forward for the parley.
"You boss this outfit?"
"I am."
"This woman, she say one of your men he shoot her husband."
