I saw enough to satisfy me to a moral certainty, but nothin' for a sheriff; and, of course, we couldn't go shoot up a peaceful rancher on mere suspicion.
Finally, one day, we run on a four-months' calf all by himself, with the T 0 iron onto him--a mighty healthy lookin' calf, too.
"Wonder where HIS mother is!" says I.
"Maybe it's a 'dogie,'" says Larry Eagen--we calls calves whose mothers have died "dogies." "No," says I, "I don't hardly think so.

A dogie is always under size and poor, and he's layin' around water holes, and he always has a big, sway belly onto him.

No, this is no dogie; and, if it's an honest calf, there sure ought to be a T 0 cow around somewhere." So we separated to have a good look.

Larry rode up on the edge of a little rimrock.

In a minute I saw his hoss jump back, dodgin' a rattlesnake or somethin', and then fall back out of sight.