CHAPTER XIV.

THE COMMON YELLER KIND.


Mr. Howitt stood quietly by the corral gate when the horseman rode
up. It was Wash Gibbs, on his way home from an all day visit with
friends on the river.

When the big mountaineer took the short cut through Mutton Hollow,
he thought to get well past the ranch before the light failed. No
matter how well fortified with the courage distilled by his
friend, Jennings, the big man would never have taken the trail by
the old ruined cabin alone after dark. He had evidently been
riding at a good pace, for his mule's neck and flanks were wet
with sweat. Gibbs, himself, seemed greatly excited, and one hand
rested on the pistol at his hip, as be pulled up in front of the
shepherd.

Without returning Mr. Howitt's greeting, he pointed toward the two
empty chairs in front of the house, demanding roughly, "Who was
that with you before you heard me comin'?"

"Sammy Lane was here a few minutes ago," replied the shepherd.

Gibbs uttered an oath, "She was, was she? Well, who was th' man?"