Rustlings and slow footsteps, and then heavy thuds attested to the probability that Jim was knocking the end of a log upon the ground to split off a corner whereby a handful of dry splinters could be procured. “Snake, lemme your pipe, an' I'll hev a fire in a jiffy.” “Wal, I want my terbacco an' I ain't carin' about no fire,” replied Snake. “Reckon you're the meanest cuss in these woods,” drawled Jim. Sharp click of steel on flint--many times--and then a sound of hard blowing and sputtering told of Jim's efforts to start a fire. Presently the pitchy blackness of the cabin changed; there came a little crackling of wood and the rustle of flame, and then a steady growing roar. As it chanced, Dale lay face down upon the floor of the loft, and right near his eyes there were cracks between the boughs. When the fire blazed up he was fairly well able to see the men below. The only one he had ever seen was Jim Wilson, who had been well known at Pine before Snake Anson had ever been heard of. Jim was the best of a bad lot, and he had friends among the honest people. It was rumored that he and Snake did not pull well together. “Fire feels good,” said the burly Moze, who appeared as broad as he was black-visaged. “Fall's sure a-comin'... Now if only we had some grub!” “Moze, there's a hunk of deer meat in my saddle-bag, an' if you git it you can have half,” spoke up another voice. Moze shuffled out with alacrity. In the firelight Snake Anson's face looked lean and serpent-like, his eyes glittered, and his long neck and all of his long length carried out the analogy of his name. “Snake, what's this here deal with Beasley?” inquired Jim. “Reckon you'll l'arn when I do,” replied the leader. He appeared tired and thoughtful. “Ain't we done away with enough of them poor greaser herders--for nothin'?” queried the youngest of the gang, a boy in years, whose hard, bitter lips and hungry eyes somehow set him apart from his comrades. “You're dead right, Burt--an' that's my stand,” replied the man who had sent Moze out. “Snake, snow 'll be flyin' round these woods before long,” said Jim Wilson. “Are we goin' to winter down in the Tonto Basin or over on the Gila?” “Reckon we'll do some tall ridin' before we strike south,” replied Snake, gruffly. At the juncture Moze returned. “Boss, I heerd a hoss comin' up the trail,” he said. Snake rose and stood at the door, listening. Outside the wind moaned fitfully and scattering raindrops pattered upon the cabin. “A-huh!” exclaimed Snake, in relief. Silence ensued then for a moment, at the end of which interval Dale heard a rapid clip-clop on the rocky trail outside. The men below shuffled uneasily, but none of them spoke. The fire cracked cheerily. Snake Anson stepped back from before the door with an action that expressed both doubt and caution. The trotting horse had halted out there somewhere. “Ho there, inside!” called a voice from the darkness. “Ho yourself!” replied Anson.