The man below growled under his breath, and again the spurs jingled.

“Fellars, Beasley ain't here yet,” he called. “Put the hosses under the shed. We'll wait.”

“Wait, huh!” came a harsh reply. “Mebbe all night -- an' we got nuthin' to eat.”

“Shut up, Moze. Reckon you're no good for anythin' but eatin'. Put them hosses away an' some of you rustle fire-wood in here.”

Low, muttered curses, then mingled with dull thuds of hoofs and strain of leather and heaves of tired horses.

Another shuffling, clinking footstep entered the cabin.

“Snake, it'd been sense to fetch a pack along,” drawled this newcomer.

“Reckon so, Jim. But we didn't, an' what's the use hollerin'? Beasley won't keep us waitin' long.”

Dale, lying still and prone, felt a slow start in all his blood -- a thrilling wave. That deep-voiced man below was Snake Anson, the worst and most dangerous character of the region; and the others, undoubtedly, composed his gang, long notorious in that sparsely settle country. And the Beasley mentioned -- he was one of the two biggest ranchers and sheep-raisers of the White Mountain ranges. What was the meaning of a rendezvous between Snake Anson and Beasley? Milt Dale answered that question to Beasley's discredit; and many strange matters pertaining to sheep and herders, always a mystery to the little village of Pine, now became as clear as daylight.

Other men entered the cabin.

“It ain't a-goin' to rain much,” said one. Then came a crash of wood thrown to the ground.

“Jim, hyar's a chunk of pine log, dry as punk,” said another.

Rustlings and slow footsteps, and then heavy thuds attested to the probability that Jim was knocking the end of a log upon the ground to split off a corner whereby a handful of dry splinters could be procured.

“Snake, lemme your pipe, an' I'll hev a fire in a jiffy.”

“Wal, I want my terbacco an' I ain't carin' about no fire,” replied Snake.

“Reckon you're the meanest cuss in these woods,” drawled Jim.

Sharp click of steel on flint -- many times -- and then a sound of hard blowing and sputtering told of Jim's efforts to start a fire. Presently the pitchy blackness of the cabin changed; there came a little crackling of wood and the rustle of flame, and then a steady growing roar.

As it chanced, Dale lay face down upon the floor of the loft, and right near his eyes there were cracks between the boughs. When the fire blazed up he was fairly well able to see the men below. The only one he had ever seen was Jim Wilson, who had been well known at Pine before Snake Anson had ever been heard of. Jim was the best of a bad lot, and he had friends among the honest people. It was rumored that he and Snake did not pull well together.

“Fire feels good,” said the burly Moze, who appeared as broad as he was black-visaged. “Fall's sure a-comin'. . . Now if only we had some grub!”

“Moze, there's a hunk of deer meat in my saddle-bag, an' if you git it you can have half,” spoke up another voice.

Moze shuffled out with alacrity.

In the firelight Snake Anson's face looked lean and serpent-like, his eyes glittered, and his long neck and all of his long length carried out the analogy of his name.

“Snake, what's this here deal with Beasley?” inquired Jim.

“Reckon you'll l'arn when I do,” replied the leader. He appeared tired and thoughtful.

“Ain't we done away with enough of them poor greaser herders -- for nothin'?” queried the youngest of the gang, a boy in years, whose hard, bitter lips and hungry eyes somehow set him apart from his comrades.

“You're dead right, Burt -- an' that's my stand,” replied the man who had sent Moze out. “Snake, snow 'll be flyin' round these woods before long,” said Jim Wilson. “Are we goin' to winter down in the Tonto Basin or over on the Gila?”

“Reckon we'll do some tall ridin' before we strike south,” replied Snake, gruffly.

At the juncture Moze returned.

“Boss, I heerd a hoss comin' up the trail,” he said.

Snake rose and stood at the door, listening. Outside the wind moaned fitfully and scattering raindrops pattered upon the cabin.

“A-huh!” exclaimed Snake, in relief.

Silence ensued then for a moment, at the end of which interval Dale heard a rapid clip-clop on the rocky trail outside. The men below shuffled uneasily, but none of the spoke. The fire cracked cheerily. Snake Anson stepped back from before the door with an action that expressed both doubt and caution.

The trotting horse had halted out there somewhere.

“Ho there, inside!” called a voice from the darkness.

“Ho yourself!” replied Anson.

“That you, Snake?” quickly followed the query.

“Reckon so,” returned Anson, showing himself.

The newcomer entered. He was a large man, wearing a slicker that shone wet in the firelight. His sombrero, pulled well down, shadowed his face, so that the upper half of his features might as well have been masked. He had a black, drooping mustache, and a chin like a rock. A potential force, matured and powerful, seemed to be wrapped in his movements.

“Hullo, Snake! Hullo, Wilson!” he said.