With night at hand and a rain-storm brewing, he did not head for his own camp, some miles distant, but directed his steps toward an old log cabin. When he reached it darkness had almost set in. He approached with caution. This cabin, like the few others scattered in the valleys, might harbor Indians or a bear or a panther. Nothing, however, appeared to be there. Then Dale studied the clouds driving across the sky, and he felt the cool dampness of a fine, misty rain on his face. It would rain off and on during the night. Whereupon he entered the cabin. And the next moment he heard quick hoof-beats of trotting horses. Peering out, he saw dim, moving forms in the darkness, quite close at hand. They had approached against the wind so that sound had been deadened. Five horses with riders, Dale made out--saw them loom close. Then he heard rough voices. Quickly he turned to feel in the dark for a ladder he knew led to a loft; and finding it, he quickly mounted, taking care not to make a noise with his rifle, and lay down upon the floor of brush and poles. Scarcely had he done so when heavy steps, with accompaniment of clinking spurs, passed through the door below into the cabin. “Wal, Beasley, are you here?” queried a loud voice. There was no reply. The man below growled under his breath, and again the spurs jingled. “Fellars, Beasley ain't here yet,” he called. “Put the hosses under the shed. We'll wait.” “Wait, huh!” came a harsh reply. “Mebbe all night--an' we got nuthin' to eat.” “Shut up, Moze. Reckon you're no good for anythin' but eatin'. Put them hosses away an' some of you rustle fire-wood in here.” Low, muttered curses, then mingled with dull thuds of hoofs and strain of leather and heaves of tired horses. Another shuffling, clinking footstep entered the cabin. “Snake, it'd been sense to fetch a pack along,” drawled this newcomer. “Reckon so, Jim. But we didn't, an' what's the use hollerin'? Beasley won't keep us waitin' long.” Dale, lying still and prone, felt a slow start in all his blood--a thrilling wave. That deep-voiced man below was Snake Anson, the worst and most dangerous character of the region; and the others, undoubtedly, composed his gang, long notorious in that sparsely settled country. And the Beasley mentioned--he was one of the two biggest ranchers and sheep-raisers of the White Mountain ranges. What was the meaning of a rendezvous between Snake Anson and Beasley? Milt Dale answered that question to Beasley's discredit; and many strange matters pertaining to sheep and herders, always a mystery to the little village of Pine, now became as clear as daylight. Other men entered the cabin. “It ain't a-goin' to rain much,” said one. Then came a crash of wood thrown to the ground. “Jim, hyar's a chunk of pine log, dry as punk,” said another.