“It’s up at the headwaters of the Roaring Fork, ’way up above Uncle Billy’s,” said Jimmy. “Milt’s got a cabin all built, and he’s took on a pardner, a cowboy named Archie Beam, from Swingley’s outfit. Beam couldn’t stand Swingley’s goins on, so he and Milt have hooked up together. They’ve got some good range right back of ’em, and Milt’s goin’ to have some cattle drove up from Texas, and I’m bettin’ they make good, right from the start.” Alma refused to show any interest. “I don’t see why you’re mad at Milt Bertram,” went on Jimmy. “He’s a dandy, I think. And say, I never saw anybody shoot the way he can. He’s that quick with both hands. I can see now that it was only fool luck that kept me from bein’ filled full of lead, after I had plugged him in the shoulder that time. He never asks about you, but I know he wants to hear all about what luck you’re havin’ at ranchin’. I’ve told him as much as I could about things here, specially about the cattle you’ve been losin’ lately.” “I’m sure there are at least fifty more gone from that bunch over on Devil’s Head,” said Alma. “The other ranchers around here are sure they are losing cattle, anywhere from ten to fifty head at a time, but they can’t seem to catch any one at it.” Alma was soon to learn, however, that Swingley was not to be content with getting cattle by means of occasional raids. The ranchmen throughout the county were served with notice that the newly organized Cattlemen’s Association, of which Swingley was ostensibly the head, intended to put in effect a series of district round-ups. All cattle were to be gathered and inspected, and unbranded cattle, or any livestock that carried suspicious-looking brands, were to become the property of the new organization. No sooner were the notices served than the round-ups were organized, all manned by Association men. The cow-punchers, who had made up the invading army, which was now spoken of only in terms of hatred and contempt by the small ranchmen, were scattered about in small, but aggressive, delegations, with the different round-up wagons. Swingley himself captained the round-up outfit that combed the Powderhorn Valley, from its wide reaches on the plains, to the final ranch in the foothills. When the riders had gathered the cattle from the vicinity of her ranch Alma was dismayed at the smallness of her herd. Fully half of Nick Caldwell’s cattle had been spirited away. Swingley, as sole judge and dictator, when the inspection of brands was going on, threw at least half of the remaining cattle into the Association’s pool. “It’s an outrage!” protested Alma. “There’s no question about the validity of all those brands you’ve claimed.”