"Cass told me this noon. The IX rodeo has worked down this side of the mountains, an' it'll be a week before the slope's clear of riders." Purdy broke into a torrent of curses. The Flying A horse raid, planned for that very night, was to have been the end of Cass Grimshaw. He was to have been potted by his own men--both Cass and his loyal henchman, Bill. After a few moments Purdy quieted down. He rolled a cigarette and as he smoked his brows knitted into a frown. Finally he slapped his leg. "All right, then--he'll take it where he gits it!" The others waited. "It's this way," he explained, "we ain't got time to dope it all today--but be here tomorrow noon. Tonight everything goes as usual--tomorrow night, Cass Grimshaw goes to hell--an' it'll be the Purdy gang then, an' we won't stop at horse-runnin' neither." The men looked from one to the other, uneasily. "It's better this way anyhow," announced Purdy, "we'll bump him off, an' collect the reward. I know a feller that'll collect it--I've got somethin' on him--he's got to." "We're all in the gang," muttered the man who had asked Purdy where he had been, "looks like if you had somethin' on someone you'd let us all in." "Not by a damn sight! If I did, what would keep you from double-crossin' me, an' goin' after him yerselves. All you got to do is be here tomorrow noon--then we'll cut the cards to see who does the trick." Grumbling dubiously, the men caught up their horses, and scattering approached the hang-out from different directions. As Purdy rode he scowled blackly, cursing venomously the heavens overhead, the earth beneath, and all the inhabitants thereof. "I overplayed my hand when I made Cinnabar sore," he muttered. "But he'll come around in a week. Trouble is, I've took too much on. Cass an' Bill'll git theirn tomorrow night, that'll give me time to git organized, an' horn the pilgrim out of his five thousan', an' git it over with by the twentieth when old McWhorter's due fer his lonesome jag, an' then fer three days I'll have my own way with the girl--an' when I've had her fer three days--she'll never go back!" A sudden thought struck him, and he pulled up and gazed toward Red Sand while a devilish gleam played in his narrowed eyes. "Gawd," he muttered, "drunk as he gits, the shack could burn to the ground--it's every man fer hisself--might's well play safe. An' after that comes Cinnabar's turn--an' another woman's goin' to pay fer bein' free with her tongue. Then the Wolf River bank. Damn 'em!" he cried, suddenly, "I'll clean 'em all! I'm smarter'n the whole mess of 'em. I'm a killer! I'm the last of the loboes! Cass depended on friends, but me--the name of Purdy'll chill their guts!" CHAPTER XXI THE PASSING OF LONG BILL KEARNEY