Bothwell—big, grim, and deliberate of manner—said nothing as he looked down into his chief’s face. But later, outside the house, listening to Bud Hemmingway’s recital of how Taylor had been brought to the ranchhouse, Bothwell said shortly: “I’m takin’ a look!” Shortly afterward, followed by every man of the outfit who had ridden in with him, Bothwell crossed the big basin and sent his horse up the long slope to the big house. Outside they came upon the bodies of the two men with whom Taylor had fought. And inside the house they saw the other huddled on the floor near a door in the big front room. Silently the men filed through the house, looking into all the rooms, and noting the wreck and ruin that had been wrought. They saw the broken glass of the little window through which one of Carrington’s men had fired the first shot; they noted the hole in the ceiling—caused by a bullet from Taylor’s pistol; and they saw another hole in the wall near the door beside which Taylor had been standing just before he had swung the door open. “Three of them—an’ Carrington—accordin’ to what Bud says,” said Bothwell. “That’s four.” He smiled bitterly. “They got him all right—almost, I reckon. But from the looks of things they must have had a roarin’ picnic doin’ it!” Not disturbing anything, the entire outfit mounted and rode swiftly down the Dawes trail, their hearts swelling with sympathy for Taylor and passionate hatred for Carrington, “itching for a clean-up,” as one sullen-looking member of the outfit described his feelings. But there was no “clean-up.” When they reached Dawes they found the town quiet—and men who saw them gave them plenty of room and forebore to argue with them. For it was known that they were reckless, hardy spirits when the mood came upon them, and that they worshiped Taylor. And so they entered Dawes, and Dawes treated them with respect. Passing the city hall, they noticed some men grouped in front of the building, and they halted, Bothwell dismounting and entering. “What’s the gang collectin’ for?” he asked a man—whom he knew for Danforth. There was a belligerent thrust to Bothwell’s chin, and a glare in his eyes that, Danforth felt, must be met with diplomacy. “There’s been trouble at the Huggins house, and I’m sending these men to investigate.” “Give them diggin’ tools,” said Bothwell grimly. “An’ remember this—if there’s any more herd-ridin’ of our boss the Arrow outfit is startin’ a private graveyard!” He pinned the mayor with a cold glare: “Where’s Carrington?” “In his rooms—under a doctor’s care. He’s hit—bad. A bullet in his side.” “Ought to be in his gizzard!” growled Bothwell. He went out, mounted, and led his men away. They were reluctant to leave town, but Bothwell was insistent. “They ain’t no fight in that bunch of plug-uglies!” he scoffed. “We’ll go back an’ ’tend to business, an’ pull for the boss to get well!”