"Sure! And of course back they came into the chute. And so on. Till they
died, or we came along and drove them back home."

"Windy," said I, "you're stuffing me full of tacks."

"I've seen little calves lyin' in heaps against the fence like drifts of
tumbleweed," said Windy, soberly; and then added, without apparent
passion, "The old----!"

Looking at Windy's face, I knew these words for truth.

"He's a bad _hombre_," resumed Windy Bill after a moment. "He never does
no actual killing himself, but he's got a bad lot of oilers[A] there,
especially an old one named Andreas and another one called Ramon, and
all he has to do is to lift one eye at a man he don't like and that man
is as good as dead--one time or another."

This was going it pretty strong, and I grinned at Windy Bill.

"All right," said Windy, "I'm just telling you."

"Well, what's the matter with you fellows down here?" I challenged. "How
is it he's lasted so long? Why hasn't someone shot him? Are you all
afraid of him or his Mexicans?"

"No, it ain't that, exactly. I don't know. He drives by all alone, and
he don't pack no gun ever, and he's sort of runty--and--I do'no _why_ he
ain't been shot, but he ain't. And if I was you, I'd stick home."

Windy amused but did not greatly persuade me. By this time I was fairly