a curiously amused smile, then snapped his
big jaw as if to shut in impulsive words.

"Look here, Morton. It stands to reason, no matter how strong these
rustlers are, how hidden their work, however involved with supposedly
honest men--they CAN'T last."

"They come with the pioneers, an' they'll last till thar's a single
steer left," he declared.

"Well, if you take that view of circumstances I just figure you as one
of the rustlers."

Morton looked as if he were about to brain Duane with the butt of his
whip. His anger flashed by then, evidently as unworthy of him, and,
something striking him as funny, he boomed out a laugh.

"It's not so funny," Duane went on. "If you're going to pretend a yellow
streak, what else will I think?"

"Pretend?" he repeated.

"Sure. I know men of nerve. And here they're not any different from
those in other places. I say if you show anything like a lack of sand
it's all bluff. By nature you've got nerve. There are a lot of men
around Fairdale who're afraid of their shadows--afraid to be out after
dark--afraid to open their mouths. But you're not one. So I say if you
claim these rustlers will last you're pretending lack of nerve just to
help the popular idea along. For they CAN'T last. What you need out here
is some new blood. Savvy what I mean?"

"Wal, I reckon I do," he replied, looking as if a storm had blown over
him. "Stranger, I'll look you up the next time I come to town."

Then he went out.

Laramie had eyes like flint striking fire.

He breathed a deep breath and looked around the room before his gaze
fixed again on Duane.

"Wal," he replied, speaking low. "You've picked the right men. Now, who
in the hell are you?"

Reaching into the inside pocket of his buckskin vest, Duane turned the
lining out. A star-shaped bright silver object flashed as he shoved it,
pocket and all, under Jim's hard eyes.

"RANGER!" he whispered, cracking the table with his fist. "You sure rung
true to me."

"Laramie, do you know who's boss of this secret gang of rustlers
hereabouts?" asked Duane, bluntly. It was characteristic of him to
come sharp to the point. His voice--something deep, easy, cool about
him--seemed to steady Laramie.

"No," replied Laramie.

"Does anybody know?" went on Duane.

"Wal, I reckon there's not one honest native who KNOWS."

"But you have your suspicions?"

"We have."

"Give me your idea about this crowd that hangs round the saloons--the
regulars."