Sampson gave a slight start, barely perceptible like the twitch of an awakening tiger.  He sat there, head down, stroking his mustache.  Almost I saw his thought.  I had long experience in reading men under stress of such emotion.  I had no means to vindicate my judgment, but my conviction was that Sampson right then and there decided that the thing to do was to kill Wright.  For my part, I wondered that he had not come to such a conclusion before.  Not improbably the advent of his daughter had put Sampson in conflict with himself.

Suddenly he threw off a somber cast of countenance and began to talk.  He talked swiftly, persuasively, yet I imagined he was talking to smooth Wright’s passion for the moment.  Wright no more caught the fateful significance of a line crossed, a limit reached, a decree decided, than if he had not been present.  He was obsessed with himself.

How, I wondered, had a man of his mind ever lived so long and gone so far among the exacting conditions of Pecos County?  The answer was perhaps, that Sampson had guided him, upheld him, protected him.  The coming of Diane Sampson had been the entering wedge of dissension.

“You’re too impatient,” concluded Sampson.  “You’ll ruin any chance of happiness if you rush Diane.  She might be won.  If you told her who I am she’d hate you forever.  She might marry you to save me, but she’d hate you.

“That isn’t the way.  Wait.  Play for time.  Be different with her.  Cut out your drinking.  She despises that.  Let’s plan to sell out here, stock, ranch, property, and leave the country.  Then you’d have a show with her.”

“I told you we’ve got to stick,” growled Wright.  “The gang won’t stand for our going.  It can’t be done unless you want to sacrifice everything.”

“You mean double-cross the men?  Go without their knowing?  Leave them here to face whatever comes?”

“I mean just that.”

“I’m bad enough, but not that bad,” returned Sampson.  “If I can’t get the gang to let me off I’ll stay and face the music.  All the same, Wright, did it ever strike you that most of our deals the last few years have been yours?”

“Yes.  If I hadn’t rung them in, there wouldn’t have been any.  You’ve had cold feet, Owens says, especially since this Ranger Steele has been here.”

“Well, call it cold feet if you like.  But I call it sense.  We reached our limit long ago.  We began by rustling a few cattle at a time when rustling was laughed at.  But as our greed grew so did our boldness.  Then came the gang, the regular trips, and one thing and another till, before we knew it—­before I knew it, we had shady deals, hold-ups, and murders on our record.  Then we had to go on.  Too late to turn back!”

“I reckon we’ve all said that.  None of the gang wants to quit.  They all think, and I think, we can’t be touched.  We may be blamed, but nothing can be proved.  We’re too strong.”