At the foot of Little Thumb Butte a lengthening semicircle of fire flared through the night.

John Wesley Pringle swung far out on the plain to circle round it.
"This takes time," he muttered to himself, "but at least I know where not to go.

That old rip-snorter sure put a spoke in my wheel! Looks like Foy might see them lights and drift out away from this.

But he won't, I guess--they said his hidey-hole was right on top, and the shoulder of the hill will hide the fires from him.

Probably asleep, anyhow, thinkin' he's safe.