“You don’t know nothin’ about the cattle game, young lady,” responded Swingley callously. “Every brand I’ve claimed was made with a runnin’ iron. Nick Caldwell’s title of the ‘king of the rustlers’ was well earned. And it’d be better for all who sympathized with him if they moved out of this country, without standin’ on ceremony,” added the rustler significantly. “We’re not through with ’em yet.” The girl did not lose the general meaning of the threat, but at first she did not get its full import. A few weeks later she learned what Swingley had meant. Immediately after the completion of the Association round-ups, which resulted in many thousands of cattle being seized from small ranchers by the big cattle interests, there began a series of assassinations which soon had the entire countryside terrorized. One ranchman after another, who had been identified with the opposition to the big cattlemen, was shot down by a mysterious rifleman. It was apparent that the work was done by one person, yet the shootings occurred at such divergent points of the compass that it seemed impossible that a single rider could cover so much ground in such a short space of time. Two bachelor brothers, who conducted a small ranch on one of the tributaries of the Upper Powderhorn, were shot dead, as they sat at their evening meal, the assassin firing, with deadly accuracy, through the open window. To the cabin door was attached a paper, on which was printed in rude letters: Rustlers, Beware! A day after this double murder the county was thrilled by the news that Fred Hersekorn, a prosperous ranchman in another part of the valley, had been shot, as he was riding home after a trip to Wild Horse. The ranchman was murdered almost at the door of his home. His wife, who had rushed to the yard at the sound of the shot, had found her husband shot through the head. It was dusk, but she descried a horseman riding across the prairie, on the opposite side of the road. The rider turned with a defiant wave of the hand, and the woman saw that he wore a black mask, covering the upper part of his face. On a tree beside the driveway leading to the ranchman’s house was found a sign similar to that posted on the cabin of the assassin’s victims on the Upper Powderhorn. The countryside was terrorized, the feeling of helplessness being intensified because the sheriff was notoriously indifferent to anything that was not to the best interests of the big cattlemen. Men were afraid to meet on the main-traveled roads. When a traveler saw another traveler approaching there was a mutual survey at long distance. Then, to make assurance doubly sure, each horseman usually made a detour. Men did not stir outdoors unless they were armed. Curtains were put up at ranch house windows that had never previously known such obstructions to the light.