“Good boy,” said Brian Oakley, again.  And then, for a little, no sound save the soft clinking of bit or bridle-chain in the darkness broke the hush that fell over the little group.  With faces turned toward their leader, they waited his word.  The Ranger stood still, the long official envelope in his hand.  When he spoke, there was a ring in his voice that left in the minds of his companions no doubt as to his view of the seriousness of the situation.  “Milt,” he said sharply.

The youngest of the Carleton sons stepped forward.  “Yes, sir.”

“You will ride to Fairlands.  It’s half past one, now.  You should be back between eight and nine in the morning.  Give this letter to the Sheriff and bring me his answer.  Stop at Miss Willard’s and tell her what you know.  You’ll get something to eat there, while you’re talking.  If I’m not at your house when you get back, feed your horse and wait.”

“Yes, sir,” came the answer, and an instant later the boy rider vanished into the night.

While the sound of the messenger’s going still came to them, the Ranger spoke again.  “Henry, you’ll ride to Morton’s.  Tell him to be at your place, with his crowd, by daylight.  Then go home and be ready with breakfast for the riders when they come in.  We’ll have to make your place the center.  It’ll be hard on your wife and the girls, but Mrs. Morton will likely go over to lend them a hand.  I wish to God Mary was here.”

“Never mind about my folks, Brian,” returned the rancher as he mounted.  “You know they’ll be on the job.”

“You bet I know, Henry,” came the answer as the mountaineer rode away.  Then—­“Bill, you’ll take every one between here and the head of the canyon.  If there’s a man shows up at Carleton’s later than an hour after sunup, we’ll run him out of the country.  Tom, you take the trail over into the Santa Ana, circle around to the mouth of the canyon, and back up Clear Creek.  Turn out everybody.  Jack, you’ll take the Galena Valley neighborhood.  Send in your men but don’t come back yourself until you’ve found that man who went down the canyon on horseback.”

When the last rider was gone in the darkness, the Ranger said to the artist, “Come, Aaron, you must get some rest.  There’s not a thing more that can be done, until daylight.”

Aaron King protested.  But, strong as he was, the unusual exertion of his hours in the saddle, together with his racking anxiety, had told upon muscles and nerves.  His face, pale and drawn, gave the lie to his words that he was not tired.

“You must rest, man,” said Brian Oakley, shortly.  “There may be days of this ahead of us.  You’ve got to snatch every minute, when it’s possible, to conserve your strength.  You’ve already had more than the rest of us.  Jerk off your boots and lie down until I call you, even if you can’t sleep.  Do as I say—­I’m boss here.”