the one determined, the other defiant. Sheridan could have blown off that proudly balanced head with its undulating tongue and beady eyes, but a shot would have defeated his purpose with Hollister. The snake's neck twisted into the shape of an S, the buttons of the rattle rasped incessantly; it seemed to quiver with rage, measuring distance for a stroke.
A shadow drifted over the ledge, covered the snake, dimmed for a second the glitter of its glance. Instantly it uncoiled, away from Sheridan, and glided, swiftly, but with dignity, to a crevice where it disappeared. Sheridan exhaled a breath of relief and glanced up at the soaring rock falcon gratefully.
"I owe you a fat chicken for that," he said, under his breath, and, as the graceful bird wheeled on, quickly crossed the remainder of the rocky flat and plunged again into the mesquite.
Beside the little pool of the foothill spring a man stood over a red and white calf that lay with its feet tied in a bunch. Its tongue lolled out, its sides rose and fell like a blacksmith's bellows, the piteous, white-rimmed eyes rolling fearfully. The man was tall and swarthy, broad of shoulder, inclined to thickness at the waist and he was wearing a blue denim shirt above overalls and well-scuffed leather chaparejos. His broad sombrero was pushed well back, showing sleek black hair that matched his clipped mustache, his eyebrows, his eyes. He held the string of a tobacco sack in his teeth and he was deftly rolling a cigarette with one hand when Sheridan emerged from the mesquite. Paper and tobacco
