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 he 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?"
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