"Just my derned, forsaken luck. You—you wasn't goin' to have dumplin's too, was you, Quong?"
"Yes, sir."
Jackson turned away with a groan. Then he wheeled.
"Save some for me, an' the Boss, Quong. Creamed chicken an' dumplin's! I'll git even with Hollister for this. "
Ten minutes later they were saddled and away, loping at a tangent towards Pioche Pass, where a wagon road paralleled the rails. Sheridan did not use his mare for ordinary ranch work and she was fresh. The ewe-necked roan wanted nothing better than to run but they held them in to a steady lope, the horses' heads high, nostrils distended to the cooling evening wind, redolent with spicy herbage. Again the afterglow was brilliant back of Ghost Mountain, spired against the glowing clouds, pink to the sunset that rayed its topmost crags and left the timberline black and shaggy. They had to ride through the pass and around the range to the Pioche side. Fifteen miles to go, against twelve from Metzal.
They carried four guns, though Sheridan hoped there would be no occasion to use them. But he dreaded what form of deviltry the drunken gang from Metzal might devise, and his face was grim as he opened up a primitive gate in the northwest corner of his holding, and looped it back in place again, after they had passed through.
They avoided the foothills and, choosing their ground by old acquaintance, loped on for the
