“You’re out early, Dick,” was the salutation of Sterry, as his old friend reined up beside him and extended his hand.

“And are riding hard,” added Capt.  Asbury, who liked the young man.

“I ride hard,” replied Hawkridge, gravely, “because there is need of it; I was looking for you.”

“And why looking for me?” inquired the captain.

“Because you and your men are in great peril.”

“Ah.  What might be its nature?”

“From the rustlers.”

“I was trying to persuade myself that it was they who were in peril from us, but you put it differently.”

“It might be as you wish if you had twenty-five or fifty men; but with less than a dozen, and more than twice that number looking for you, discretion is the better part of valor.”

“Tell me, Hawkridge, how all this interesting information came to you,” continued Capt.  Asbury.

“My ranch is not far to the northward, my cattle are ranging among the foothills of the Big Horn Mountains, and all my hands are with them.  I sat up late last night, going over my accounts and trying to get them into shape, and it was past midnight when two rustlers rode up.  I supposed they meant to stay all night and invited them in.  I have never had any trouble with them, and they had two purposes in calling.  One was to give me a little advice, and the other to secure information.”

“Their advice, I suppose, was that you cast in your fortunes with them, and take up the business of branding mavericks and altering other brands.”

“Hardly that, but it was that I should keep out of the trouble, for there are going to be ugly times.  Now you know that, however much I may wish to let things proceed smoothly, I will never identify myself with the law-breakers.  I gave my callers to understand that, and I think they respect my position.

“It seems to me,” added Hawkridge, thoughtfully, “that there have been some woeful mistakes made.  The Cattle Association have organized an expedition to rid Johnson, Natroma and Converse Counties of cattle-thieves, as they call them.  They have imported twenty-five picked men from Texas, every one of whom is a fighter and dead shot, with Capt.  Smith, an ex-U.S. marshal, as their leader.  One of the party may be taken as a type of the rest.  He is Scott Davis, once a guard on the Deadwood coach, and he carries a gun with twenty notches on the stock, each representing the death of a road-agent or other outlaw.

“The expedition left Cheyenne some days ago and is somewhere in this section.  Strong as it is, it is doomed to defeat, for I don’t care how brave and skilful those fellows are, they are no more so than the rustlers, who far outnumber them.

“However, it isn’t that which concerns you and me just now, though it may do so later.  The rustlers have learned that you are out with a small party, and they are after you.”

Capt.  Asbury was a brave man, and he did not start on hearing this announcement, for he had been expecting it from the first; but he was prudent as well as daring, and he knew his young friend did not underestimate the danger of himself and companions.