The dog slunk through the timber and disappeared. The cowboy rode
slowly, peering through the timber. Presently came the trample of
frightened sheep--a shrill bleating, and then silence. Fadeaway loped
out into the open. The sheep were running in all directions. He
whistled the dog to him. Chance's muzzle dripped red. The dog slunk
round behind the horse, knowing that he had done wrong, despite the
fact that he had been set upon the sheep.

From the edge of the timber some one shouted. The cowboy turned and
saw a herder running toward him. He reined around and sat waiting
grimly. When the herder was within speaking distance. Fadeaway's hand
dropped to his hip and the herder stopped. He gesticulated and spoke
rapidly in Spanish. Fadeaway answered, but in a kind of Spanish not
taught in schools or heard in indoor conversation.

The herder pressed forward. "Why, how! Fernando. Now what's bitin'
you?"

"The sheep! He kill the lamb!" cried the herder.

Fadeaway laughed. "Did, eh? Well, I tried to call him off. Reckon
you heard me whistle him, didn't you?"

The cowboy's assertion was so palpably an insult that old Fernando's
anger overcame his caution. He stepped forward threateningly.
Fadeaway's gun was out and a splash of dust leaped up at Fernando's
feet. The herder turned and ran. Fadeaway laughed and swung away at a
lope.