“First, a word as to the objects of our league, then as to our laws. It will do no harm to freshen your memory on these points. We all know our calling—our name, for it is _confiscation_—others call it stealing; but that don’t matter. Among ourselves we are “Night Hawks.” To others we are simple cattle-drovers, mustangers, or quiet settlers. “We have been organized some six months. In that time our profits have been nearly two thousand dollars per man: a little better than simple farming. But it will be better still, now that our markets are fairly opened, and a chain established along which we can ship our plunder without chance of being detected. All this, however, you know. “Now about our laws. The first is—_death to all traitors_. The next—death to those who stubbornly refuse to perform the duty assigned to them. Our motto is, blood for blood. If a member of our league is taken prisoner, we swear to free him, though it cost the lives of half our number. If one is killed, we swear to avenge him. “You all remember Hans Koch. He warned a friend that we intended cleaning out his corral on a certain night. A trap was set for us, but we escaped it, because a trusted spy discovered Koch’s treachery. You know that Koch met his reward. I killed him, because the lot fell to me. Had I refused, your laws would have condemned me, even though I was twice your leader. You wonder why I say all this? I will tell you now. “You know that Koch’s death reduced the number of our league to twenty. There are only eighteen here now. One—Tony Marcks—is absent on duty assigned him by me. The other—Israel Hackett—is dead.” A low murmur of surprise followed this announcement, and it was evident that few, if any of the band had known of their comrade’s fate. Jasper Morton waved his hand for silence, then resumed: “Yes, Israel Hackett is dead—he was killed last night, while performing his duty. He was one of our best men, and now duty becomes a pleasure—we must avenge him as our laws demand.” “He shall be avenged—the name? who killed him?” came the fierce cry from more than one pair of lips. “Keep cool—all in good time, men. We will proceed by rule. It is only one man, and upon one of us the duty falls. We will decide by _the lottery_. It is the fairest way. Thompson—the pouch!” A small, narrow buck-skin bag was handed the leader, who knelt beside the small fire that flickered faintly and feebly. At a gesture from him the outlaws—for such they undoubtedly were—gathered more closely around, bending forward and watching his every motion.