“Another show-down. Stock we haven’t time to brand is just lost. Thet’s all. If I had twice as many cowboys I couldn’t put an iron on all the colts an’ calves thet belong to us.”

The horses stopped at the fence, stood head on for a while, and then began to graze toward the slope. Britt saw the riders before they discovered him. There were eight in sight. He rather inclined to the opinion that more were yet to come. Voices came clearly to him.

“Bill, somethin’ turned the dogies.”

“Gate closed.”

“Look thar!”

“Who’n hell’s thet?”

After a trenchant pause one of the riders answered: “Thet’s Cap Britt, foreman of the Ripple outfit.”

Britt recognized that surly voice as belonging to Mugg Dillon, one of his cowboys.

“Ride ahead—you,” ordered one of the group, sharply. “Take a peek in thet cabin.”

Dillon rode on out of the aspens and up to the open door of the cabin. Peering in he called gruffly: “Nobody hyar.”

Then the riders advanced, separating in a manner which told the Texan much; and in this formation they rode to within a hundred paces of the fence. Dillon fell in behind them. Britt’s swift eye took in many significant points. These men were superbly mounted on dark bays and blacks. They were heavily armed. A harder looking gang Britt had not seen on the range. Whatever else they were, they surely were cowmen. Britt needed only a glance to link the lithe, easily poised riders, all evincing the incomparable saddle-seat of cowboys, to the stone-faced, matured type of range-rustler and horse-thief.

“Hyar, Dillon,” rasped the leader, a swarthy man whose features were vague in the shadow of a wide sombrero. The rider called made haste to get out in front. “Come on an’ introduce me to your boss.”

“Easy, Bill,” cracked a dry voice from the line. “Thet hombre was a Texas Ranger.”

Warily the leader urged his horse all of fifty steps toward the fence. Dillon lined up beside him. At this distance Britt gathered from the cowboy’s ashen face that he was in a predicament from which there seemed to be no escape. Britt had never seen this man Bill. He had brawny shoulders and unkempt hair low on his thick neck. The foreman could catch only a gleam of rapacious eyes.

“Dillon, is this your boss?” he queried, gruffly, without looking at the cowboy.

“Yes.”

“Howdy, Britt.”

“Howdy, yoreself,” rejoined Britt, curtly.

“Enjoyin’ the scenery roundabout?” went on Bill, sarcastically.

“Not particular, leastways not in front.”

“Reckon you shut the gate on us.”

“Wal, it’s our gate.”

“You can open it pronto.”

The foreman vented a short dry laugh, but vouchsafed no other answer.

“What’s the idee, Britt?” went on the raider.

“I seen a bunch of our hawses comin’ an’ I didn’t want them to get out.”

“Your hosses?—How you goin’ to prove thet? They ain’t branded.”

“Wal, I reckon I cain’t prove it. But my ootfit knows ’em an’ they’ll be comin’ pronto.”

“Hell you say,” retorted Bill, flashing a plainsman’s gaze across the range. “Only one hossman in sight.”

“Mugg, where’d you leave Stinger an’ Brazos Keene?” inquired Britt, coldly.

“Boss, we left Stinger fer dead. An’ the last I seen of Brazos he was ridin’ hell-bent fer leather up the pass,” replied the cowboy, hurriedly.

Dillon had been the last rider taken on by Britt for the Ripple outfit, and he was an unknown and doubtful quality. Britt knew his status would be defined shortly.

“Mugg, how come you’re ridin’ with these gents?” drawled the foreman.

“I—he … boss, I jest had—to,” burst out Dillon, disconnectedly. He was not yet old enough at this game to face death coolly from two sides.