The existence of the small and independent ranchman was becoming precarious. He was being hounded by two prolific sources of trouble, these sources having a power and insolent strength contemptuously indifferent to any claim set up in their paths by one weaker than themselves. On the one hand was the wealthy cattle owner, whose ever-increasing wealth and consequent power was a growing menace to the interests of the small owner whose very bread and butter depended upon his ability to buy and sell to advantage. But with bigger interests slowly but surely gaining control of the markets, who might foretell the future? None beheld the ominous signs more apprehensively than did Williston, who for more than two years, striving desperately to make good mistakes and misfortunes made back in Iowa, had felt the pinching grow more and more acute. On the other hand was the vicious combination of the boldness, cunning, and greed of the cattle rustlers who harassed all the range country of the Dakotas and Nebraska. Annihilation was the sword of Damocles held over the head of the small ranchman. A hand lifted to avert impending doom would have set the air in vibration and the sword would have fallen. Nemesis was as sure to follow at the hands of the fellowship of rustlers as ever it was at the hands of the Secret Tribunal of old. Williston was chafing under his helplessness as the jaded pony climbed doggedly this last bluff. To the right of his path a hawk was fluttering frantically just above the reach of a basilisk-eyed rattlesnake, whose baneful charm the ill-advised bird was not able to resist. “Devil take you, Battle Ax, but you’re slow,” muttered Williston, utterly indifferent to the outcome of this battle royal. “I’d give a good deal to sit down this minute to some of my little girl’s flapjacks and coffee. But nothing for us, lazy-bones, till midnight—or morning, more likely. Do walk up as if you had some little standing in the world of cow ponies. You haven’t, of a surety, but you might make an effort. All things are possible to him who tries, you know, which is a tremendous lie, of course. But perhaps it doesn’t apply to poor devils like us who are ‘has beens.’ Here we are. Ah!”