e them--that shaped their conduct toward their fellows. Some of them
were rapid gunslingers--in the picturesque idioms of their speech--and
there was not a man among them who did not take pride in his ability to
"work" his gun. They had accepted Harlan, but it was obvious that among
them were some that doubted the veracity of rumor--some who felt that
Harlan had been overrated.

It did not take Harlan long to discover who those doubting spirits were.
He saw them watching him--always with curling lip and truculent eye; he
heard references to his ability from them--scraps of conversation in
which such terms and phrases as "a false alarm, mebbe," "he don't look
it," "wears 'em for show, I reckon," were used. He had learned the names
of the men; there were three of them, known merely as "Lanky," "Poggs,"
and "Latimer."

Their raids upon the cattle in the basin took place at night; and their
other depredations occurred at that time also. Harlan did not fail to
hear of them, for their successes figured prominently in their daytime
conversations; and he had watched the herd of cattle in the Star corrals
grow in size until the enclosure grew too small to hold them comfortably.
He had noted, too, the cleverness with which the men obliterated the
brands on the stolen cattle--or refashioned them until proof of their
identity was obscure.

He had taken no part in any of the raids, though he had passed a few
nights at the Star, directing, with the help of Strom Rogers, the
altering of the brands and the other work attending the disguising of the
cattle.

Haydon he had seen but a few times, and Deveny not at all. He learned
from Rogers that Haydon spent most of his time upon mysterious missions
which took him to Lamo, to Lazette, and to Las Vegas; and that Deveny
operated from a place that Rogers referred to as the "Cache," several
miles up the valley.

Latimer, a tawny giant of a man with a long, hooked nose, and thin, cruel
lips, interested Harlan. He watched the man when the other was not
conscious of his glances, noting the bigness of him, his slow,
panther-like movements; the glowing, savage truculence of his eyes; the
hard, bitter droop of his lips under the yellow mustache he wore. He felt
the threat of the man when the latter looked at him--it was personal,
intense--seeming to have motive behind it. It aroused in Harlan a
responsive passion.

One day, seated on a bench in front of the long bunkhouse near the Star
ranc