I ended my little talk by telling the story of Amos Clark, a criminal of a higher type than most bad men, yet infinitely more dangerous because of that.  He was a Southerner of good family.  After the war he went to Dimmick County and there developed and prospered with the country.  He became the most influential citizen of his town and the richest in that section.  He held offices.  He was energetic in his opposition to rustlers and outlaws.  He was held in high esteem by his countrymen.  But this Amos Clark was the leader of a band of rustlers, highwaymen, and murderers.

Captain Neal and some of his Rangers ferreted out Clark’s relation to this lawless gang, and in the end caught him red-handed.  He was arrested and eventually hanged.  His case was unusual, and it furnished an example of what was possible in that wild country.  Clark had a son who was honest and a wife whom he dearly loved, both of whom had been utterly ignorant of the other and wicked side of life.  I told this last story deliberately, yet with some misgivings.  I wanted to see—­I convinced myself it was needful for me to see—­if Miss Sampson had any suspicion of her father.  To look into her face then was no easy task.  But when I did I experienced a shock, though not exactly the kind I had prepared myself for.

She knew something; maybe she knew actually more than Steele or I; still, if it were a crime, she had a marvelous control over her true feelings.

* * * * *

Jack Blome and his men had been in Linrock for several days; old Snecker and his son Bo had reappeared, and other hard-looking customers, new to me if not to Linrock.  These helped to create a charged and waiting atmosphere.  The saloons did unusual business and were never closed.  Respectable citizens of the town were awakened in the early dawn by rowdies carousing in the streets.

Steele kept pretty closely under cover.  He did not entertain the opinion, nor did I, that the first time he walked down the street he would be a target for Blome and his gang.  Things seldom happened that way, and when they did happen so it was more accident than design.  Blome was setting the stage for his little drama.

Meanwhile Steele was not idle.  He told me he had met Jim Hoden, Morton and Zimmer, and that these men had approached others of like character; a secret club had been formed and all the members were ready for action.  Steele also told me that he had spent hours at night watching the house where George Wright stayed when he was not up at Sampson’s.  Wright had almost recovered from the injury to his arm, but he still remained most of the time indoors.  At night he was visited, or at least his house was, by strange men who were swift, stealthy, mysterious—­all men who formerly would not have been friends or neighbors.

Steele had not been able to recognize any of these night visitors, and he did not think the time was ripe for a bold holding up of one of them.