SIGNS, AND NO ONE TO READ THEM Bill Hayden's mouth was pinched into a straight line across his desert-scarred face.

He shortened his hold on the rope that held Jake and passed the flat of his hand down Jake's neck under the heavy mane.

He held up a moistened palm and looked at it needlessly.

He stepped back and surveyed the drawn-in flanks, and with his eye he measured the length and depth of the saddle marks, as though he half hoped thereby to identify the saddle that had made them.

His eyes were hard with the cold fury that lumped the muscles on his jaw.
He turned his head and surveyed the scattered group of boys busy with ropes, bridles and saddles--making ready for the day's work, which happened to be the gathering of more horses to break, for the war across the water used up horses at an amazing rate, and Sudden was not the man to let good prices go to waste.