“Milt,” called Swingley, reining his sweating horse in front of Bertram, who was smoking a cigarette and wondering what had become of the girl whose card had been taken out and scanned many times. “Milt, I know you’re handy at blacksmithing. Old Jim Dykes, the only horseshoer we’ve got along, has got himself kicked in the arm, and he won’t be any more good to us on this trip. Come and help us out.” Bertram accompanied Swingley to the improvised forge, where the groaning blacksmith was having his injured arm set by an amateur surgeon. The young Texan had often been called upon to shoe fractious bronchos on his uncle’s ranch, the work presenting little difficulty to him on account of his exceptional skill in managing the wildest horses. Seeing that the old blacksmith was incapable of further work, Bertram took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, disclosing a pair of muscular arms, and in an hour he had completed the tasks necessary to set the caravan moving. “It sure was lucky that I remembered seein’ you blacksmithin’ on your uncle’s ranch,” said Swingley, reining his horse beside Bertram’s, shortly after the start was made. “You may have to help us out a little more before we git through, but, anyway, mebbe you’ll have pleasanter work mixed in with the blacksmithin’--a little shootin’ at a mark, for instance.” Swingley had grinned meaningly, as he spoke. “I’ve heard there might be some shooting,” observed Bertram dryly, “but I might as well let you know right now that I always get an awful attack of buck fever when I’m shooting at men.” “You’ll forget it when we hit into the thick of the fightin’,” returned Swingley, not catching the sarcasm in Bertram’s voice, or deliberately overlooking it. “I don’t mind tellin’ you that we may be in for a little ruction inside of another twelve hours. We’ve come up here to put an end to cattle rustlin’ in this part of the State. The rustlers are so strong that they’ve been runnin’ things as they wanted. But, when they see what they’re up against now, it may be that they’ll quit without a fight. If they don’t--so much the worse for them.” Swingley turned in his saddle and looked proudly back at his little army. The sight would have inspired pride in any captain. Here was a grim company of tanned, resolute-looking horsemen, riding with that easy grace peculiar to the saddlemen of the Western plains. The loud jests that had been heard on the train were not in evidence. The men rode quietly. Pistols were ready to the grasp, as were the guns in the scabbards at the horses’ sides. Behind the command rumbled the camp wagons. “Cattle rustlin’ is goin’ to be a lot less popular than it has been, before this outfit is through,” observed Swingley, “and there’ll be some old scores that’ll be paid off in full, too.” The cattleman’s voice was thick with passion. His heavy brows were drawn together in a frown, and the muscles of his powerful jaws worked spasmodically as he clenched his teeth determinedly.