As it was, Charlie rode north alone. There had been a time when he never left that ranch in the valley without a rifle under his stirrup leather. When Buck Walters’ shadow lay like a menace across that range a man needed to be armed. But for a long time the Winchester carbine had reposed in Charlie’s bed, except when he occasionally hunted antelope or wolves. Now it was in its worn scabbard beneath his leg. And Charlie felt a little keyed up, a little expectant. If he were lucky he might have the laugh on Elmer Duffy at last. For things had assumed a different aspect since he learned that the TL was losing beef wholesale. On that was based the idea that had popped suddenly into Charlie’s mind--an idea too far-fetched to divulge to Rock Holloway. Some one had begun to steal cattle again, where none had dared, after the private war that wiped out Buck Walters and his crowd. Here and there in the range country there was always some one who coveted his neighbor’s ox, just as in more highly organized communities light-fingered folk always seek to filch goods that other men have accumulated by legitimate enterprise and honest industry. If a man could not enjoy the fruits of his labor, he would know the reason why. Charlie considered the situation. There had been no known rustling on the Marias for four years, and perhaps it looked like good picking. With that to spur him, Charlie was inordinately curious to know who was so nervous as to smoke up an unseen solitary traveler crossing Lonesome Prairie at night--and why? The way to read a book is to open it and turn the pages. The way to learn what Charlie wanted to know was to look over the ground. There was, besides, a farther field to explore in the light of Rock’s lost cattle. He had the wispy intermittent blue of smoke from the burning coal seam to mark the place where those shots had been fired. By half past one he drew up on the low rise above the swale in which he had heard that peculiar sound. * * * * * Nothing in sight. Autumn-bleached grass, miles of it; cattle grazing here and there. Distant saw-toothed mountain summits breaking the sky line. Away off to the north, below the horizon, Charlie knew that gangs of men with plows and scrapers and teams swarmed like an extended column of warrior ants, constructing the grade of a transcontinental railway. Charlie had in his own mind established a possible relation between the vanished cattle and this activity. It had come to him, far-fetched but possible, as he talked to Rock. But first, he wanted to look about here for some sign which might confirm his suspicions. A casual inspection of the spot revealed nothing. The earth was baked hard. The short grass, dry and stiff, sprung back to erectness when released from underfoot. He was, however, quite sure of his location, having almost an uncanny sense about such things.