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“Then, with only about fifty head of grown cows, there ought not to be an equal number of yearlin’s?”

“I should say not,” says I. “What are you drivin’ at?”

“Nothin’ yet,” says he.

A few days later he tackled me again.

“Jed,” says he, “I’m not good, like you fellows are, at knowin’ one cow from another, but there’s a calf down there branded T 0 that I’d pretty near swear I saw with an X Y cow last month. I wish you could come down with me.”

We got that fixed easy enough, and for the next month rammed around through this broken country lookin’ for evidence. I saw enough to satisfy me to a moral certainty, but nothin’ for a sheriff; and, of course, we couldn’t go shoot up a peaceful rancher on mere suspicion. Finally, one day, we run on a four-months’ calf all by himself, with the T 0 iron onto him–a mighty healthy lookin’ calf, too.

“Wonder where HIS mother is!” says I.

“Maybe it’s a ‘dogie,'” says Larry Eagen–we calls calves whose mothers have died “dogies.”

“No,” says I, “I don’t hardly think so. A dogie is always under size and poor, and he’s layin’ around water holes, and he always has a big, sway belly onto him. No, this is no dogie; and, if it’s an honest calf, there sure ought to be a T 0 cow around somewhere.”

So we separated to have a good look. Larry rode up on the edge of a little rimrock. In a minute I saw his hoss jump back, dodgin’ a rattlesnake or somethin’, and then fall back out of sight. I jumped my hoss up there tur’ble quick, and looked over, expectin’ to see nothin’ but mangled remains. It was only about fifteen foot down, but I couldn’t see bottom ‘count of some brush.

“Are you all right?” I yells.

“Yes, yes!” cries Larry, “but for the love of God, get down here as quick as you can.”

I hopped off my hoss and scrambled down somehow.

“Hurt?” says I, as soon as I lit.

“Not a bit–look here.”

There was a dead cow with the Lazy Y on her flank.

“And a bullet-hole in her forehead,” adds Larry. “And, look here, that T 0 calf was bald-faced, and so was this cow.”

“Reckon we found our sleepers,” says I.

So, there we was. Larry had to lead his cavallo down the barranca to the main canon. I followed along on the rim, waitin’ until a place gave me a chance to get down, too, or Larry a chance to get up. We were talkin’ back and forth when, all at once, Larry shouted again.

“Big game this time,” he yells. “Here’s a cave and a mountain lion squallin’ in it.”

I slid down to him at once, and we drew our six-shooters and went up to the cave openin’, right under the rim-rock. There, sure enough, were fresh lion tracks, and we could hear a little faint cryin’ like woman.

“First chance,” claims Larry, and dropped to his hands and knees at the entrance.

“Well, damn me!” he cries, and crawls in at once, payin’ no attention to me tellin’ him to be more cautious. In a minute he backs out, carryin’ a three-year-old goat.

“We seem to be in for adventures to-day,” says he. “Now, where do you suppose that came from, and how did it get here?”

“Well,” says I, “I’ve followed lion tracks where they’ve carried yearlin’s across their backs like a fox does a goose. They’re tur’ble strong.”

“But where did she come from?” he wonders.

“As for that,” says I, “don’t you remember now that T 0 outfit had a yearlin’ kid when it came into the country?”

“That’s right,” says he. “It’s only a mile down the canon. I’ll take it home. They must be most distracted about it.”

So I scratched up to the top where my pony was waitin’. It was a tur’ble hard climb, and I ‘most had to have hooks on my eyebrows to get up at all. It’s easier to slide down than to climb back. I dropped my gun out of my holster, and she went way to the bottom, but I wouldn’t have gone back for six guns. Larry picked it up for me.