A big, quick-shooting story of Wyoming so typically Western in thought and action that you will feel like jumping up and joining the posse that is hunting for Race Moran.
ah!" Jensen snorted contemptuously. "I can take care of myself. I know what I'm doin', I tell you."
"You may, but you don't act like it," was Wade's parting remark, as he turned his horse and rode off.
"Go to hell!" the Swede shouted after him.
Heading toward Crawling Water, the ranch owner rode rapidly over the sun-baked ground, too full of rage to take notice of anything except his own helplessness. The sting of Jensen's impudence lay in Wade's realization that to enlist the aid of the sheriff against the sheep man would be very difficult, if not altogether impossible. There was very little law in that region, and what little there was seemed, somehow, to have been taken under the direction of Race Moran.
It was now broad day and the prairie warmed to the blazing sun. Long, rolling stretches of grass, topped with rocks and alkaline sand, gave back a blinding glare like the reflection of a summer sea, from which arose a haze of gray dust like ocean mists over distant reaches. Far