Closely as Van Horn, while speaking, watched the effect of his words, it was impossible to gather from Laramie's face the slightest clue as to the impression they were making. Laramie sat quite relaxed, his back to the corner, his legs crossed, listening. He looked straight ahead without so much as blinking. Van Horn, nervous and impatient, scrutinized him: "That's my hand, Jim," he said flatly. "What have you got?" Laramie paused. After a moment he turned his eyes on his questioner: "No hand. This is not my game." "Make it your game and your game in this country is made. Doubleday and Dan Pettigrew want you. They're the men that run this country--what do you say?" "The men that run this country can't run me." Van Horn, in spite of his assurance, felt the blow. But he put on a front. "What makes you talk that way?" he flared. "This is the same bunch," continued Laramie evenly, "that sent two different men to get me two years ago--and when I defended myself--had me indicted. That indictment is still hanging for all I know. This is the bunch that owns the district court." Van Horn made a violent gesture. "What's the use raking up old sores? That's past and gone. That indictment's been quashed long ago." "This is the bunch," and Laramie spoke even more deliberately; he looked directly, almost disconcertingly at Van Horn himself, "that sent the men to rip off my wire just a while ago. I tracked 'em to Doubleday's and if I'd found Doubleday or you or Stone there that day--if I'd got my eyes on Barb Doubleday that day--you'd 've turned the men that pulled that wire over to me or I'd known the reason why. "Now these same critters and you have the gall to talk to me about joining hands. Hell, I'd quicker join hands with a bunch of rattlesnakes. When that crowd want me let them come and get me. I'm not chiding. They talk about cattle thieves! Why, your outfit would steal the spurs off a rustler's heels. And when men like Hawk and Yankee Robinson and German set up a little ranch with a few head of cows for themselves your bunch blacklists them, refuses 'em work anywhere on the range. Where did Dutch Henry learn to steal? Working for Barb Doubleday; he branded mavericks for him, played dummy for his land entries, swore to false affidavits for him. Now when he turns around and steals the steers he stole for Barb, Barb has the nerve to ask me to round him up at my proper risk and run him out of the country!" Van Horn rose: "That's the answer, is it?" Laramie sat still. He looked dead ahead: "What did it sound like?" he asked, as Van Horn stood looking at him. "Just the same, Jim," muttered Van Horn, "the rustlers have got to go." Laramie looked across the office: "That all may be," he observed, rising. And he repeated as Van Horn started away: "That all may be. And the men that ripped off my wire have got to put it back. Tell 'em I said so."