Some explosions of bluff and braggadocio from the ranchers followed Whitmore's announcement, until one of the gang, who had been engaged in a private conversation with another inside the ranch, came out and said with more calmness, "Now your oxen have probably strayed off, and if you wouldn't make such a d--d fuss about it, mebbe we might help you find 'em. We know the ranges pretty well, but we won't stand any of your insinuations." Whitmore cast a glance at his men, who all appeared to be perfectly serene. Their Henry repeating rifles, recognizable by their bright brass mountings, were in hand ready for business. "As I said a minute ago," continued Whitmore, "all I ask of you is that you get the oxen, and you have got to get 'em d--d quick, and the quicker you get 'em the better for you. I'll give you just about five minutes to settle what you will do, but mind you, only two men can pass our lines without a fight." Now this was one method for securing justice, practicable only under peculiar circumstances. There were no courts, no constables, and the practice of bluff was sometimes worked to the limit. Sometimes the bluff would fail and often a desperate fight would follow. "Well, pard," said one of the leaders, after a private parley with some members of his party, "we ain't here to hunt other people's stock, and we ain't afraid of nobody, but mebbe there is some misunderstanding about this thing and we are willin' to see if we can't find your oxen. Now, what do they look like?" "You bring me eight good oxen," replied Hill, "and I reckon they'll be mine." In a little time two men, wearing leather breeches, might have been seen riding northward and disappearing in the distance. At the same time the men from the train fell back to a respectful distance, many resting upon the ground prepared for a protracted vigil. In about three hours the riders returned, driving all the missing stock before them. The battle was declared off, and after lunch the train promptly pulled out for Green River. Having seen the old _rendezvous_ of Jean Lafitte, the dreaded pirate of the Gulf, situated far back near the swampy shore and protected in the rear by impenetrable canebrakes, also the bolder structure said to have been the castle of Gilles de Rais, the French Buccaneer in the Danish Islands, in the light that history and romance have thrown round them, I have endeavored in imagination to repeople them with the characters, both men and women, who once inhabited those now deserted strongholds, yet I have never pictured a band that would more perfectly suit that service nor have I ever seen a body of men who in manner and appearance were more perfectly adapted to such a vocation than the gang who infested the cabin at Ham's Fork. CHAPTER XXIII THROUGH THE WASATCH MOUNTAINS