Krell, the other man, was smooth of face, with a strong, bold, thrusting jaw and thick, pouting lips.  His eyes were big, but they had a disquieting habit of incessant watchfulness—­a crafty alertness, as though their owner was suspicious of the motives of those at whom he looked.

Selden and Krell had been recruited from the southern border, they represented an element that the ranger service was slowly and surely eliminating—­and driving northward into states whose laws were less stringent for the evil-doer—­the professional gunmen who took life for the malicious thrill it gave them.

Krell and Selden were “killers.”  They were Antrim’s constant companions, except when the necessities of his trade drove the outlaw to work alone.  They knew his whims and understood his methods.

Now, as Antrim paused near the table and looked at them, Krell smiled evilly.

“I reckon we’ll be settin’ here twirlin’ our thumbs till the outfit gits back?” he suggested.

Antrim laughed.

“We’re trailin’ the outfit right now,” he told the other.

Antrim extinguished the light, and the three went out and mounted their horses.  Their movements were deliberate, unhurried.  They crossed the river, gaining the plains above it, and rode at a slow lope in the direction taken by the others who had preceded them.

They talked as they rode, lowly, earnestly—­planning the night’s work, speculating upon the probable outcome of the raid upon the Circle L by the men under Slade.

When they reached the edge of the big valley and concealed themselves in the fringing brush, they saw that Slade and his men had already struck.  Streaks of flame were splitting the darkness in the basin; there were reports of pistols—­which were reduced to mere faint, popping noises by the distance they traveled before reaching the ears of Antrim and his men; they saw the herd start; heard it go thundering up the valley in a cloud of dust and strike the edge of the plain above, to swing eastward toward Kinney’s canon.

“Slade’s sure workin’ hard for that promotion,” observed Antrim, mockingly.  “He’s got ’em runnin’ fast an’ under control.”

The three men did not emerge from their concealment for some time.  They watched until the herd grew small in the distance eastward; they noted the confusion that seemed to reign in the vicinity of the bunkhouse, where the Circle L men were frenziedly preparing to pursue the rustlers; they laughed at the figures that were darting here and there in the light from the open doorway of the bunkhouse; and Antrim sneered when he saw the ranchhouse door open and noted the form of a man framed in the square of light that shone out.

“That’ll be Blackburn, I reckon,” he said to the other two; “inquirin’ for Lawler, mebbe.  Well, Blackburn an’ his guys will have to get along without Lawler.”