For a week Bert Cole had been riding on the Sheepshead Mountain roundup, and nothing of moment had happened except the usual routine of the occasion. Bert was happy at having a regular job, and his eye was keen for Flying M cattle. Much keener, it seemed, than Tom Chill’s. There were not so many of them, to be sure, but Tom usually overlooked the few there were.
That, of itself, was somewhat mystifying to Bert; but there were other things which also hinted of strangeness. Sheepshead Mountain was almost a closed range. Soda River made a wide belt around both sides and one end of it, and the other end was guarded by an impassable cliff which ran from the river almost to the Double E ranch, the property of Enoch Cole.
Few strange cattle could get in there, and old Enoch saw to it that few o
