“You know as well as I do,” said Clarence, controlling his voice with an effort, “that what you have done there will have to be undone, if you wish to hold even those lawless men of yours together, or keep yourself and them from being run into the brush like highwaymen.  I’ve no fear for that.  Neither do I care to know what was your motive in doing it; but I can only tell you that if it was retaliation, I alone was and still am responsible for Hooker’s action at the rancho.  I came here to know just what you have done with him, and, if necessary, to take his place.”

“You’re just a little too previous in your talk, I reckon, Brant,” returned Gilroy lazily, “and as to legality, I reckon we stand on the same level with yourself, just here.  Beginnin’ with what you came for:  as we don’t know where your Jim Hooker is, and as we ain’t done anythin’ to him, we don’t exackly see what we could do with you in his place.  Ez to our motives,—­well, we’ve got a good deal to say about that.  We reckoned that he wasn’t exackly the kind of man we wanted for a neighbor.  His pow’ful fightin’ style didn’t suit us peaceful folks, and we thought it rather worked agin this new ‘law and order’ racket to have such a man about, to say nuthin’ of it prejudicin’ quiet settlers.  He had too many revolvers for one man to keep his eye on, and was altogether too much steeped in blood, so to speak, for ordinary washin’ and domestic purposes!  His hull get up was too deathlike and clammy; so we persuaded him to leave.  We just went there, all of us, and exhorted him.  We stayed round there two days and nights, takin’ turns, talkin’ with him, nuthin’ more, only selecting subjects in his own style to please him, until he left!  And then, as we didn’t see any use for his house there, we took it away.  Them’s the cold facts, Brant,” he added, with a certain convincing indifference that left no room for doubt, “and you can stand by ’em.  Now, workin’ back to the first principle you laid down,—­that we’ll have to undo what we’ve done,—­we don’t agree with you, for we’ve taken a leaf outer your own book.  We’ve got it here in black and white.  We’ve got a bill o’ sale of Hooker’s house and possession, and we’re on the land in place of him,—­as your tenants.”  He reentered the shanty, took a piece of paper from a soap-box on the shell, and held it out to Clarence.  “Here it is.  It’s a fair and square deal, Brant.  We gave him, as it says here, a hundred dollars for it!  No humbuggin’, but the hard cash, by Jiminy!  And he took the money.”

The ring of truth in the man’s voice was as unmistakable as the signature in Jim’s own hand.  Hooker had sold out!  Clarence turned hastily away.

“We don’t know where he went,” continued Gilroy grimly, “but I reckon you ain’t over anxious to see him now.  And I kin tell ye something to ease your mind,—­he didn’t require much persuadin’.  And I kin tell ye another, if ye ain’t above takin’ advice from folks that don’t pertend to give it,” he added, with the same curious look of interest in his face.  “You’ve done well to get shut of him, and if you got shut of a few more of his kind that you trust to, you’d do better.”