“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.

“Morton, I don’t want to be a hard-riding cowboy all my days.  Do you think I’d let fear of a gang of rustlers stop me from going in business with a rancher?  Nit!  What you need out here in Pecos is some new blood—­a few youngsters like me to get you old guys started.  Savvy what I mean?”

“Wal, I reckon I do,” he replied, looking as if a storm had blown over him.

I gauged the hold the rustler gang had on Linrock by the difficult job it was to stir this really courageous old cattleman.  He had grown up with the evil.  To him it must have been a necessary one, the same as dry seasons and cyclones.

“Russ, I’ll look you up the next time I come to town,” he said soberly.

We parted, and I, more than content with the meeting, retraced my steps down street to the Hope So saloon.

Here I entered, bent on tasks as sincere as the ones just finished, but displeasing, because I had to mix with a low, profane set, to cultivate them, to drink occasionally despite my deftness at emptying glasses on the floor, to gamble with them and strangers, always playing the part of a flush and flashy cowboy, half drunk, ready to laugh or fight.

On the night of the fifth day after Steele’s departure, I went, as was my habit, to the rendezvous we maintained at the pile of rocks out in the open.

The night was clear, bright starlight, without any moon, and for this latter fact safer to be abroad.  Often from my covert I had seen dark figures skulking in and out of Linrock.

It would have been interesting to hold up these mysterious travelers; so far, however, this had not been our game.  I had enough to keep my own tracks hidden, and my own comings and goings.

I liked to be out in the night, with the darkness close down to the earth, and the feeling of a limitless open all around.  Not only did I listen for Steele’s soft step, but for any sound—­the yelp of coyote or mourn of wolf, the creak of wind in the dead brush, the distant clatter of hoofs, a woman’s singing voice faint from the town.

This time, just when I was about to give up for that evening, Steele came looming like a black giant long before I heard his soft step.  It was good to feel his grip, even if it hurt, because after five days I had begun to worry.

“Well, old boy, how’s tricks?” he asked easily.

“Well, old man, did you land that son of a gun in jail?”

“You bet I did.  And he’ll stay there for a while.  Del Rio rather liked the idea, Russ.  All right there.  I side-stepped Sanderson on the way back.  But over here at the little village—­Sampson they call it—­I was held up.  Couldn’t help it, because there wasn’t any road around.”

“Held up?” I queried.

“That’s it, the buckboard was held up.  I got into the brush in time to save my bacon.  They began to shoot too soon.”