It was dark of the moon—as it was always when Sky Line gathered beef—a soft windy dark, ideal for the concealment of riders, the disguising of sounds. They dropped down the mountain at an angle, heading northwest to circle the end of Mystery, and they followed no trail. They were all armed and all wore dark clothing. The only point of light about them was the grey horse which Provine rode. Kate Cathrew had remonstrated about that horse, but the Texan who feared neither man, beast or devil, had slapped its rump affectionately and refused to ride any other. “If that damned nosey sheriff hits my trail on his long-legged bay I want old Silvertip under me,” he had said, “I don’t aim to decorate no records for him.” “Are you saying you won’t obey me?” the boss had asked in a voice of ice. “Yes, ma’am, in this particular instance.” “Do you know Lawrence Arnold will soon be here?” “Well?” “You know what he can do to you?” “Shore. But—I’ll risk it—for Silvertip.” So he had deliberately mounted and the woman was thankful that none of the other riders had heard the insubordination. Provine was invaluable, and she held her peace. Caldwell, leading, kept well up on the slope above the river and after two hours’ hard going they were well around the northwest end of Mystery Ridge which flared like a lady’s old-fashioned skirt, and heading down into the glades that broke the jumbled ridges of the Upper Country. Here Bossick, a rich man, ran his cattle and had his holding. His ranch lay well back from the river and up, but his stock ranged down. That was why it had been easy prey for the mysterious rustlers of Nameless River. These men did not talk. They rode with a purpose and they were alert to every sound, their nerves were taut as fiddle strings. Where the slanting glades came down toward the river they dropped to the level and presently rode up along a smooth green floor that led directly toward Bossick’s place, though a sharp spine cut it off at the head. The outlet from the ranch to the river lay over this ridge and parallel to it. As they trotted up the glade the little wind that drew down from the cañon at its head brought the scent of cattle, and presently they came upon a horse and rider standing like a statue in the shadows. Caldwell drew rein sharply. “Dickson?” he asked in a low voice. “O. K.” came the answer as the other moved forward to join them. “Seventy-one head,” he said quietly, “and all ready.” “Then let’s get busy,” said the foreman, “and get out of here.” With pre-arranged and concerted action the seven men divided and circled the herd which was bedded and quiet. On the further edge they were joined by another shadowy rider, and with silence and dispatch they got the cattle up and moving.