“Wal, stranger, to come out flat-footed, you'd be foolish to buy cattle now. I don't want to take your money an' see you lose out. Better go back across the Pecos where the rustlers ain't so strong. I haven't had more'n twenty-five hundred herd of stock for ten years. The rustlers let me hang on to a breedin' herd. Kind of them, ain't it?” “Sort of kind. All I hear is rustlers, Morton,” replied Duane, with impatience. “You see, I haven't ever lived long in a rustler-run county. Who heads the gang, anyway?” Morton looked at Duane with a curiously amused smile, then snapped his big jaw as if to shut in impulsive words. “Look here, Morton. It stands to reason, no matter how strong these rustlers are, how hidden their work, however involved with supposedly honest men--they CAN'T last.” “They come with the pioneers, an' they'll last till thar's a single steer left,” he declared. “Well, if you take that view of circumstances I just figure you as one of the rustlers.” Morton looked as if he were about to brain Duane with the butt of his whip. His anger flashed by then, evidently as unworthy of him, and, something striking him as funny, he boomed out a laugh. “It's not so funny,” Duane went on. “If you're going to pretend a yellow streak, what else will I think?” “Pretend?” he repeated. “Sure. I know men of nerve. And here they're not any different from those in other places. I say if you show anything like a lack of sand it's all bluff. By nature you've got nerve. There are a lot of men around Fairdale who're afraid of their shadows--afraid to be out after dark--afraid to open their mouths. But you're not one. So I say if you claim these rustlers will last you're pretending lack of nerve just to help the popular idea along. For they CAN'T last. What you need out here is some new blood. Savvy what I mean?” “Wal, I reckon I do,” he replied, looking as if a storm had blown over him. “Stranger, I'll look you up the next time I come to town.” Then he went out. Laramie had eyes like flint striking fire. He breathed a deep breath and looked around the room before his gaze fixed again on Duane. “Wal,” he replied, speaking low. “You've picked the right men. Now, who in the hell are you?” Reaching into the inside pocket of his buckskin vest, Duane turned the lining out. A star-shaped bright silver object flashed as he shoved it, pocket and all, under Jim's hard eyes. “RANGER!” he whispered, cracking the table with his fist. “You sure rung true to me.” “Laramie, do you know who's boss of this secret gang of rustlers hereabouts?” asked Duane, bluntly. It was characteristic of him to come sharp to the point. His voice--something deep, easy, cool about him--seemed to steady Laramie. “No,” replied Laramie. “Does anybody know?” went on Duane. “Wal, I reckon there's not one honest native who KNOWS.” “But you have your suspicions?” “We have.” “Give me your idea about this crowd that hangs round the saloons--the regulars.”