“Don’t josh me, Milt. You know as well as I do that there’s been a heap of trouble in Wyomin’, for the last few years, don’t you?” Bertram signified assent. Along the great cattle trails, stretching from Texas to the Canadian line, there had come news of serious and long-standing troubles in northern Wyoming. Rustlers and big cattle interests were almost at a point of open war. The cattle interests claimed that the rustlers had been carrying on wholesale operations. Every small rancher was under suspicion. The great herds were being depleted, it was claimed, and numerous small herds were being built up at the expense of the heavily capitalized interests. Men who had counted themselves millionaires were faced with ruin, owing to the melting away of their herds. “These single cinchers all tell the same story when they come down to this part of the country,” said Archie, alluding to the single rig of the northern cattlemen, as opposed to the double cinch of that district. “They say there’s been much trouble all over the northern part of the State. The thing has got so bad that the little cattlemen have took to pottin’ the big ones. A cowman, who don’t belong with the rustlin’ majority, is takin’ chances every time he throws his leg over a saddle and starts out to git a little fresh air.” “Which side is right?” “What’s the difference which side is right?” said Archie, asking a question in answering one. “We’re out to play the game for the side with the most money, which is the big cattlemen, of course. I ain’t constitutionally opposed to rustlin’ cattle. I’ve packed a runnin’ iron in my boot so long that it’s made me a little stiff-legged, but a man in that game’s got to take his own chances. I took mine, and these Wyomin’ rustlers have got to take theirs. I guess they’ll think somethin’ popped when this gang cuts loose on ’em. There ain’t a hombre in this crowd that ain’t got his man, I guess, all but you, Milt. Old Two-bar Ace must have thought you had gone far enough lately to be part and passel with us. You sure have been hittin’ it up, boy, to be classed in with a fightin’ gang like this. Well, so long, and a short war and a merry one.” Bertram’s grip on the seat in front of him tightened, as the cowboy departed, called by some riotous members of the gang. The young Texan knew that the cowboy had spoken the truth. Bertram had been traveling a fast pace, even for the great outdoor land, where restrictions were few. He had been brought up on a ranch on the Brazos, where he had spent as much of his time as he could induce his devoted mother to let him subtract from school. He had even attended college at Austin, but his mother’s death, before he had graduated, had brought to light the fact that the ranch had been mortgaged to pay for Bertram’s education.