“Now, Jim, here’s what I come particular to see you for.  I need your advice.  I’ve got a little money.  Between you and me, as friends, I’ve been adding some to that roll all the time.  But before I lose it I want to invest some.  Buy some stock or buy an interest in some rancher’s herd.

“What I want you to steer me on is a good, square rancher.  Or maybe a couple of ranchers if there happen to be two honest ones in Pecos.  Eh?  No deals with ranchers who ride in the dark with rustlers!  I’ve a hunch Linrock’s full of them.

“Now, Jim, you’ve been here for years.  So you must know a couple of men above suspicion.”

“Thank God I do, Russ,” he replied feelingly.  “Frank Morton an’ Si Zimmer, my friends an’ neighbors all my prosperous days.  An’ friends still.  You can gamble on Frank and Si.  But Russ, if you want advice from me, don’t invest money in stock now.”

“Why?”

“Because any new feller buyin’ stock in Pecos these days will be rustled quicker’n he can say Jack Robinson.  The pioneers, the new cattlemen—­these are easy pickin’.  But the new fellers have to learn the ropes.  They don’t know anythin’ or anybody.  An’ the old ranchers are wise an’ sore.  They’d fight if they....”

“What?” I put in as he paused.  “If they knew who was rustling the stock?”

“Nope.”

“If they had the nerve?”

“Not thet so much.”

“What then?  What’d make them fight?”

“A leader!”

I went out of Hoden’s with that word ringing in my ears.  A leader!  In my mind’s eye I saw a horde of dark faced, dusty-booted cattlemen riding grim and armed behind Vaughn Steele.

More thoughtful than usual, I walked on, passing some of my old haunts, and was about to turn in front of a feed and grain store when a hearty slap on my back disturbed my reflection.

“Howdy thar, cowboy,” boomed a big voice.

It was Morton, the rancher whom Jim had mentioned, and whose acquaintance I had made.  He was a man of great bulk, with a ruddy, merry face.

“Hello, Morton.  Let’s have a drink,” I replied.

“Gotta rustle home,” he said.  “Young feller, I’ve a ranch to work.”

“Sell it to me, Morton.”

He laughed and said he wished he could.  His buckboard stood at the rail, the horses stamping impatiently.

“Cards must be runnin’ lucky,” he went on, with another hearty laugh.

“Can’t kick on the luck.  But I’m afraid it will change.  Morton, my friend Hoden gave me a hunch you’d be a good man to tie to.  Now, I’ve a little money, and before I lose it I’d like to invest it in stock.”

He smiled broadly, but for all his doubt of me he took definite interest.

“I’m not drunk, and I’m on the square,” I said bluntly.  “You’ve taken me for a no-good cow puncher without any brains.  Wake up, Morton.  If you never size up your neighbors any better than you have me—­well, you won’t get any richer.”