The faded blue eyes of the Texan had a far-away look. His fingers caressed a chin rough with gray stubbles. He was thinking of his young wife and his year-old baby. Their future depended upon his little cattle ranch. “I reckon, Mac. We got to fight some time. Might as well be right now.” “To-night,” agreed McCoy decisively. “We’ll settle this before daybreak. We don’t want too many in this thing. Five or six are enough.” “Here are three of your six,” suggested Rogers. “Larry Silcott is four. We’ve got to take Larry. He brought me the news.” “How about Dunc King? He’s a good boy—absolutely on the square.” Rowan shook his head. “Let’s keep Dunc out of this. You know what a good old lady Mrs. King is. We’ll not take her only son into trouble. Besides, Dunc talks too much.” “Well, Jack Cole. He’ll go through and padlock his mouth, too. I’d trust Jack to a finish.” “Cole is all right, Brad. You feel him out. Five of us are all that’s needed. We’ll meet at the Three Pines at midnight. Sam, you and Brad can decide to spend the night at home since we’re camping so near your places. I’ll drive my bunch of cows down to the Circle Diamond as an excuse to get away. I can take Jack and Larry with me to help. Probably you had better hang around till after we’ve been gone a while.” The Circle Diamond cattle were cut out from the bunch and started homeward. Rowan, with Silcott and Cole to help him on the drive, vanished after them into the night. “Funny Mac didn’t start at sunset. What’s the idea of waiting till night?” asked King of Falkner, who sat beside him at the campfire. “Beats me.” Falkner scowled at the leaping flames. His face was still decorated with half a dozen ugly cuts and as many bruises, souvenirs of his encounter with Tait. Just now he was full of suspicions, vague and indefinite as yet, but none the less active. For Larry had told him the news he had brought. “Sing the old Chisum Trail song, Sam,” demanded a cow-puncher. A chorus of shouts backed the request. “Cain’t you boys ever leave the old man alone?” complained Yerby. “I done bust my laig to-day when I fell off’n that pinto. I’ve got a half a notion to light a shuck for home and get Missie to rub on some o’ that white liniment she makes. It’s the healin’est medicine ever I took.” “Don’t be a piker, Sam. Sing for us.” “What’ll I sing? I done sung that trail song yesterday.” “Anything. Leave it to you.” The old Texan piped up lugubriously, a twinkle in his tired eyes: “Come, all you old cow-punchers, a story I will tell, And if you’ll be quiet I’m sure I’ll sing it well, And if you boys don’t like it, you sure can go to hell!” A shout of laughter greeted this unexpected proposition. “Fair enough.” “Go to it, Sam!” “Give us the rest!” urged the chap-clad young giants around the fire. Yerby took up his theme in singsong fashion, and went through the other stanzas, but as he finished he groaned again.