Breakfast next morning was finished in quick time and they set about breaking camp. Slim cached his own saddle and under it Chuck placed his extra clothing.

They brought their mounts up to the camp and saddled them. Slim patted Lightning affectionately, talking to her as he drew the cinches tight.

“We’re going on another adventure, old girl,” he said softly, “and I’m counting on you to help me win. If we get in any tight spots, it may be up to you and your speed. How about it?”

If Lightning didn’t understand the exact words, she sensed that her master was praising her, and she tossed her head proudly.

Slim looked carefully at the places where Old Bill had applied the dye. There was no trace of the pigment and to all intents and purposes Lightning was simply another sorrel. True, she was a little larger and longer of leg than the average range horse, but not uncommon enough to attract unusual attention.

Chuck’s new mount was just a plain calico cayuse, a good sturdy horse with plenty of endurance and a good trail gait.

“Fixed on cash?” asked Old Bill.

“We’re supposed to be broke,” said Chuck.

“Sure enough, but I thought you might need a bit for emergencies.”

“I’ve got enough for that,” said the Circle Four cowboy and Slim added that he had sufficient cash to carry him along.

The sun was just topping the Cajons when they swung into their saddles and splashed across the noisy mountain stream. They reached Sky High trail and took the turn to the left, heading down for the valley. For an hour they rode steadily with Old Bill in the lead. Then they came to a fork in the trail and the cattleman halted.

“Here’s where we part. I’m going left and out beyond the Cajons by the old trail. You boys take the way to the right. It’s a good day’s ride to Dirty Water and unless I miss my guess, that’s where you’ll find the rustlers. I’m counting on you boys to turn them up for us. When you need me you can send a telegram from the railroad station at Mopstick. That’s outside the valley, but it’s the nearest telegraph office. Good luck.”

Old Bill gave each of them a firm, warm handclasp that conveyed more than words, swung his horse around sharply, and moved briskly down the left fork of the trail.

Chuck and Slim watched him until a clump of aspen hid him from view. Then they spoke to their own horses and turned onto the trail that led to the Creeping Shadows.

The cowboy detectives rode at a steady pace that ate up miles on the long down trail into the valley.

Through midday the sun burned down on them unmercifully, but they paused at noon only long enough to water their horses.

Slim rode in the lead, little spurts of dust leaping up around Lightning’s hoofs. The Flying Arrow rider kept his head bowed to shield his face from the burning rays of the sun.

They left the foothills and entered the Creeping Shadows country, a broad, rolling land that was sheltered between the Cajons on the east and south and the mighty Three Soldiers range which reared its peaks in the west.

Streams tumbling down the sides of the ranges converged in the valley and assured the cattlemen there of plenty of water. There was ample timber and the grass was lush and long, though now burned badly by the long drought. It was a cattleman’s paradise and Slim, as he appraised the worth of the valley, could realize why rustlers would make a bold bid to steal the possessions of Adam Marks and take the valley for their own.

Lightning seemed to sense her rider’s thoughts for she paused at the crest of a knoll as though to give Slim a better chance to view the country which unfolded before him.

Chuck, his clothes heavy with dust, reined in beside Slim.

“Better ease up a little,” said the Circle Four rider. “This pace is a little more than my cayuse can stand on a day as hot as this.

“We’ve been hitting it pretty hard,” conceded Slim, “but I wanted to get to Dirty Water before sundown. Unless I miss my guess the village is only a couple of miles further.” Slim pointed toward the left, where a cluster of frame buildings could be seen strewn along the banks of a stream.

“It may be the Box B,” said Chuck.

“I don’t think so. The Box B is closer to the Three Soldiers. Whatever it is, we’ll know in a few minutes.”

Slim spoke to Lightning and the magnificent sorrel started down the slight grade, apparently as fresh and tireless as when they had taken the trail early in the day.

As they neared the buildings, Slim was convinced that they were approaching Dirty Water and he wondered just what kind of a reception was in store for them. Old Bill Needham had said the village was the headquarters of the rustlers.

Dirty Water was anything but impressive. It was a typical cow town. Most of the buildings were unpainted, their cracked boards burned a dead gray by the heat of summer and the chill blasts of winter.

Slim and Chuck pulled up on their side of the creek and surveyed the town with critical eyes. There was only one street, the buildings fronting along the creek and set back about fifty yards from the edge of the stream. Many of the frame structures had false fronts, giving them the appearance of two story buildings. There were not more than fifteen or sixteen buildings in Dirty Water.

“Wonder where the town got its name?” mused Chuck, looking down at the stream which flowed in front of them. It was clear and blue--the blue of waters from the high peaks of the Three Soldiers. “It couldn’t have been from this creek.”

“I’ll leave that information for you to dig out,” grinned Slim. “Come on. I’m hungry, tired and dirty. There’s one place over there that claims to be a hotel.”

They forded the stream and their horses mounted the sloping bank to the main street. Half way down the row of buildings a two-story structure reared its head. A faded sign proclaimed “Palace Hotel” and to the rear was a rambling stable and large corral.

In spite of their own weariness from the long, hot day in the saddle, their horses came first.

A hostler appeared from the shadows of the stable as they dismounted and Slim turned Lightning over to his care.

“How much for the horses?” asked Chuck.

“Going to stay at the hotel?” asked the stableman.

“Yes,” Chuck nodded.

“Half a dollar for each horse then.”

The price was fair enough and Slim and Chuck unfastened their saddles and rifle scabbards. They were taking no risks on the honesty of anyone at Dirty Water. The hostler looked at Lightning with open admiration.

“Fine looking horse,” he said. “Must be mighty fast.”

“Fair,” agreed Slim, “but getting a little old to keep up a hard trail gait very long. See that she’s given the best of care.”

The cowboys picked up their duffel and headed toward the hotel.

“What was the idea telling the hostler Lightning was old and losing her speed?” asked Chuck.

“There’s just a chance we may find our lives depending on Lightning’s speed and there’s no use in tipping off anyone how fast she really can run when I give her a chance.”

“In other words, we’ll sit tight and let the other fellows do the talking while we’re here,” grinned Chuck.

“Exactly. I’m hungry. Let’s hope the hotel doesn’t live up to the name of the town.”

They clumped across the narrow stoop in front of the hotel and entered the small room which served as a lobby. A fat, bald-headed man who had been swatting flies looked around from behind the counter.

“Bed and board?” he asked.

“Providing there’s no bugs in either one,” said Chuck.

The fat man’s face turned red and he sputtered furiously.

“Tha--, tha--, that’s an insult to the Palace Hotel,” he finally managed to say. “I never yet been accused of harboring a bed bug in my place.”

“No offense meant,” grinned Chuck. “I was just being cautious.”

The hotel man shoved a well thumbed ledger across the counter. A rusty pen and half empty bottle of ink followed.

“Sign your monickers here,” he said, indicating several blank spaces near the bottom of the page.

Slim picked up the pen and looked at the names which had been signed before him. According to the register, the last guest, Maxie Denkman, had visited the hotel three months before. Slim looked again at the name on the register. “Maxie,” the name clicked. It was the one the riders on the Sky High trail had mentioned as the man he had shot in the fight near the summit when Chuck had been ambushed. Here indeed was a clue to the mystery of the rustling in the Creeping Shadows. It might be worth only a little, but Slim carefully cataloged it in his mind for future reference.

“Not much travel through here,” he said, pointing to the name which had been placed on the book three months before.

“Not enough,” grunted the hotel keeper. “Still, with the riders coming in off the range, I manage to get along.”

“Country seems right healthy,” said Chuck, glancing through the dust-fogged windows toward the broad expanse of the valley.

“Some inquisitive people have been known to have a touch of lead poisoning,” said the hotel man sharply.

Slim signed his name and handed the pen to Chuck. The Flying Arrow rider scratched his name with gusto and felt sure that no one would be able to read the scrawl.

“You fellers didn’t put down your addresses,” said their host.

Slim looked at him calmly, yet when he spoke his voice was low.

“That,” he said, “is none of your business.” The hotel keeper decided that as far as he was concerned the newcomers could be only one jump ahead of a sheriff.

He handed a key over the counter. “Your room’s No. 3 on the left side as you go down the hall.”

Slim and Chuck picked up their saddles and ascended the stairs. The hallway was narrow, hot, and poorly lighted, but they found the door of their own room.

The room was furnished in the usual fashion of a cow country hotel. The bed was of cast iron, the other furnishings being two straight-backed chairs and a wash stand that stood at a crazy angle. The mirror above it, like the windows, had not been cleaned in months and there was a smell of mustiness about the room.

Slim threw open the one window and a light breeze from the east riffled the remnants of what had once been a curtain.

Chuck tested the bed.

“Not bad,” he said, “and the sheets are clean.”

There was no water in the pitcher on the washstand but the portly keeper of the hostelry appeared with a bucketful.

“Wasn’t looking for any business today,” he said as he filled the water pitcher. “Here’s a towel, too. Supper will be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

He paused at the door.

“Anything you need?” he asked.

“Solitude,” said Chuck.

The door slammed hard behind the retreating figure.

Slim laughed and then sobered as he turned to Chuck.

“You’re deliberately stirring that old chap up,” he said. “What’s the idea?”

“Nothing special. I just don’t like his looks. Maybe I can worry a little of the excess fat off him.”

“If you keep up at the rate you started, he’ll be a skeleton by tomorrow morning.”

They washed the grime of the day’s ride off and Slim surveyed the washbowl with distaste.

“It’s easy to see where they got the name ‘Dirty Water’ for this town.”

The clang of a bell sounded below and shortly after footsteps thudded heavily on the stoop.

“We’d better get down there ahead of the army,” said Chuck, throwing open the door of their own room and starting down the stairs. Slim followed, but at a more leisurely pace. He had heard someone moving about in the next room and he was curious to know what their neighbor looked like. The door opened and a man, dressed in typical cowboy attire, stepped into the hall. His right arm was in a sling. There was scarcely enough light to see his features clearly in the dusk of the hall, but Slim felt certain that the man was Maxie Denkman, who had registered three months before. He was also the Maxie he had wounded on the Sky High trail.

“Pretty hot today,” said Slim as the other man approached.

“Yeh, a little warm. I guess I saw you riding in a while ago.”

They were at the head of the stairs where the light was better and Slim saw that the other man was watching him keenly. His eyes shifted down to the gun, which swung at Slim’s right hip. Then they jerked back again.

“Going to stay in this country long?” Slim thought there was just a tinge too much anxiety in the tone.

“Hard to say. My pardner and I are just drifting, trying to find a good outfit to tie up with.”

“Then you won’t hang around here long. Cattle business in the valley is in a bad way. I hear lots of talk about rustlers, but I guess it’s poor management more than anything.”

“We’re willing to work cheap if the outfit looks like it will come through,” said Slim.

They reached the bottom of the stairs and turned into the dining room. Half a dozen men were already seated at the one table and the food was disappearing at a rapid rate.

Chuck had his own plate heaped high and Slim soon had his filled with food. There was little conversation. That would come later when appetites were satisfied and they sat back and waited for the pie to be brought on.

The man Slim had met in the hall was making slow work of his supper, for he was greatly handicapped with the use of only his left hand. He paused and looked at Slim.

“Don’t believe I know your name or did I miss it coming downstairs?”

“I didn’t mention it. Name’s Evans, Slim Evans. My pardner’s Chuck Meade.”

“Glad to know you. I’m Maxie Denkman. Meet the rest of the outfit here.”

He turned to his left and introduced the group at the table. There was Pike Carberry, who ran the general store, and his clerk, Jim Ferris, who also did the barbering for the whole valley. Next was Leo Kovec, whose star on his vest proclaimed him to be the marshal and beyond him sat Newt Bemis, whom Denkman introduced as an assistant cattle buyer. The man at the end of the table drew Slim’s attention. He was well groomed in spite in the heat of the day, immaculately shaved, and his linen was fresh and white. His dark hair was slightly curly and he had a pleasant smile.

“I’ll introduce myself,” he said. “I’m Hal Titzell, cattle buyer.”

“Glad to know you,” said Slim, and Chuck echoed the words. Just then the pie was placed on the table and conversation died.

Between mouthfuls of pie, Slim mentally gauged the group at the table.

Pike Carberry, genial, white-haired and sixty, was just what he appeared to be--the town storekeeper. Jim Ferris, slightly bald and about thirty-five, was talkative.

Leo Kovec, the marshal, was about forty, heavy of face and figure and Slim put him down as mentally slow, although he might be the local agent of the rustlers.

Newt Bemis looked plain bad. His features were heavily lined and a livid scar disfigured the right cheek. The brand, “Gunman,” was written all over him and for that reason Slim put him down as both interesting and dangerous. He was also the Newt who had tried to bushwhack Chuck on the trail.

Maxie Denkman, in introducing the others, had failed to mention his own business, but Slim knew he was allied with the rustlers.

The last man and the hardest of them all to catalog was Hal Titzell. He might be thirty-five and again he might be almost fifty. His skin was a clear tan, and his hands and fingernails much better kept than the average. He might be a cattle buyer, but Slim also put him down as a gambler, a man of rare courage and ability, which also meant an exceedingly dangerous man.

The pie finished, the group pushed their chairs away from the table and went to the stoop, where a dozen chairs were ranged along the wall of the hotel.

The sun had dropped behind the Three Soldiers and shadows were thickening. Titzell sat down beside Slim and pointed across the valley.

“Watch the shadows and you’ll see why this country is known as the Creeping Shadows.”

The shadows from the foothills of the Three Soldiers were extending further into the valley in a steady, visible movement. They were alive, creeping out and out until the entire basin was folded in their softness. Hard behind them came the deeper cloak of the night. Down the street a light flared in the window of Pike Carberry’s general store and further along raucous voices sounded in the Elite Pool Hall. Several horses splashed across the creek and their riders disappeared inside the portals of the pool hall.

“Quiet night,” said Titzell. “Things liven up Saturdays when the boys come in off the range.”

“You must get around the country quite a bit. Maybe you know where they’re needing help.”

“Most of the outfits are cutting down instead of adding men on the payroll,” said Titzell smoothly. “The Box B, Adam Marks’ outfit, claims to be having trouble with rustlers, so you might get on with him but it would be a chance I wouldn’t want to take if what Adam says is true.”

Slim wondered if Titzell was giving him a friendly warning or trying to scare him.

“I didn’t figure there was much rustling being done these days,” said Slim.

“All I know is the talk that’s current in the valley. Adam claims he’s being stolen blind and of course that makes all of the other ranchers touchy. They think he’s accusing them of being cattle thieves because Adam has the biggest outfit.”

“It looks like good cattle country.”

“There’s none better in the world,” said Titzell softly. “It would be a prize worth risking your life to get. Adam Marks once had the chance to control the whole valley, but he’s getting older and losing his grip. The man who succeeds the Box B can run this little cattle empire about as he desires.”

“Unless,” thought Slim to himself, “he happens to be an ambitious rustler and runs up against the law.”

Chuck, who had been making a tour of the town, returned and dropped into a chair beside Slim. It was quiet and peaceful, a far cry from the bitter cattle war which Old Bill Needham had told them was raging in the valley. They talked for another half hour with Titzell and were about to go up to their room when the sound of wildly drumming hoofs came from across the creek.

“Someone’s coming mighty fast,” said Titzell, half rising from his chair and shielding his eyes in an attempt to peer into the darkness beyond the creek.

“Two horses,” said Chuck, adding quickly, “they’re pulling a wagon of some kind.”

“Must be from one of the ranches, then,” put in Titzell. The cattle buyer stood up and hurried down toward the creek. Slim and Chuck followed.

Out of the night lurched a lather-covered team, a spring wagon careening behind them. The horses fairly leaped the stream and started a mad dash up the bank.

Chuck without waiting to learn who was in the wagon or what was happening, hurled himself at the team, grasping the bit of the horse on the left. The Circle Four cowboy was lifted from his feet by the wild charge of the horses, but he came down with his legs in motion and dragging hard on the bit. It was 195 pounds of bone and muscle against a tired team, and Chuck soon won, the horses slowing down to a walk. They came to a halt in front of the hotel where the feeble light from the lamp in the main room cast its rays over the wagon, where a man was huddled on the seat.

Hal Titzell vaulted into the wagon and lifted the man’s face.

“It’s Adam Marks,” he cried. “He’s been shot.”

The words drummed into Slim’s brain. Adam Marks, owner of the Box B and the man they had come to help, had been shot! The rustlers were striking out boldly, bidding for a quick finish in their fight to ruin the rancher and win control of his rich grazing lands.