Late as it was when Teddy and Roy Manley reached home that night, a conference was called. Mr. Manley sat in his office, a room set aside for his exclusive use, and listened to Teddy’s story, the while he puffed thoughtfully on his corncob pipe and, now and again, tugged at the ends of his mustache. When the tale was finished he clapped his hands together in the manner of a man who has come to a sudden decision. “Mob Jamisson has attempted to commit murder!” he ejaculated. Teddy and Roy started. It had not seemed so serious to them. They had not the advantage of Mr. Manley’s years in interpreting the occurrence. To them it had merely appeared that a man with a grudge against them had tried to injure them. “Murder!” Roy repeated slowly. “Sounds nasty, Dad.” Mr. Manley nodded. He picked up the ’phone and called a number at the Hawley exchange. “Hello--speak to the Sheriff. What? This is Bardwell Manley, at the X Bar X Ranch. Right.” He waited a moment, evidently while someone was being called to the instrument. Then he said: “This you, Sheriff? This is Bardwell Manley. X Bar X Ranch. What do you know about a man who goes by the name of Mob Jamisson? Wanted, is he? What for? Yes.... Uh-huh. Listen. Add attempted murder to that charge, and see--he tried to kill my boy, Teddy. Shot at him. We have proof all right. And there was another man with him, name of Lefton--Jerry Lefton. Heard of him too, hey? Well, I’d like you to get out warrants for both of them. Soon as possible. That’s it. Let me know if you find ’em. Sure. Thanks. So long!” Mr. Manley hung up the receiver, and faced about. “That’s the first gun,” he said. “We’ll take no more chances on waddies like that. Makay is a good man. He’ll bring ’em in if they’re still around. Now--” he tapped the ashes from the bowl of his pipe and arose--“the next time you boys go out you wear guns. If Jamisson and his gang have the idea they’re bad men of the West, we’ll just show ’em that the old West isn’t dead yet. Round-up is next week. I don’t want anything to happen, especially with that big order we got. Six hundred head is a large-size bit.” His face clouded, and the boys waited for him to finish his thought. “Peterson--he called me up to-day. Wanted to be sure I could make delivery. Never said a word about money, and the market is goin’ down every day, too. Way it stands now, he’s payin’ three a head more than Pete Ball, at the 8 X 8, expects to get. I don’t understand it.” “What did he say when he called up?” Roy asked curiously. “Nothin’ much--just asked me how things were comin’. Told him fine. They are, too. I don’t want to lose that forfeit. Five hundred isn’t exactly pin-money.” “I’ll tell a maverick it isn’t!” Impressed with the seriousness of this talk, Roy’s voice unconsciously assumed a deeper tone.