AFTER a brief consultation on the hospital veranda, Buell Hampton, Roderick and Grant decided on an immediate consultation with Jim Rankin. They found the ex-sheriff busy among the horses down at the brush stable over the hill from the Major’s home.

Jim received the startling news with great complacency.

“I’ve been expectin’ tumultuous news o’ this kind for quite a while,” he said. “Oh, I’m up to all the didoes o’ both the cowpunchers and the sheep herders. Never mind how I got to know them things. I just know ‘em, and that’s ‘nuff said, good and plenty, for all present. If the cowpunchers are going to Jack Creek tonight, there will be hell a-poppin’.”

“Not murder, surely?” exclaimed Roderick.

“Wal, there’s no sayin’ how them things end,” replied Jim. “You see it’s this way. The cowpunchers claim they’re afeard the sheep’ll cross over Jack Creek, an’ they’ll go armed with great big clubs as well as shootin’ irons. They’ll undertake, I’m ‘lowin’, ter kill with their dubs a whole lot o’ sheep, maybe the hull kit an’ bilin’ uv ‘em, shoot up the mess wagons where the sheep herders are sleepin’, an’ the chances are nine outer ten that they’ll kill the herders an’ then jist nachur’ly burn the wagons an’ the corpses, kill the shepherd dogs too an’ throw them on ter the fire and generally do a hellish piece uv intimidatin’ work. They’ll burn the wagons ter hide evidence uv their guilt. You bet they’ll git keerless with their artillery.”

“Good God!” murmured Roderick in horror and surprise.

“We must stop this murderous business,” remarked Buell Hampton.

“And get hold of Bud Bledsoe before he can do further harm,” suggested Grant Jones. “Let’s hunt up the sheriff.”

“Now, just go slow, g’nlemen, please,” replied Jim, expectorating an inconvenient mouthful of tobacco juice and wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “Jist you leave this business to me. I’ve been prognosticatin’ trouble for months back, an’ know jist how to act. No sheriff is wanted—at least not the bum sheriff we’ve got at the present time. He needs no warnin’ from us—mark my words. And even if he didn’t chance to know what we might be tellin’ him, when he did know, it would be his pertic’lar business to arrive after the killin’—that’s politics. Do you git me, Major?”

“I’m afraid I get you all right, Jim,” replied Buell Hampton gravely.

“Well, let us go and see Ben Bragdon,” proposed Roderick.

“Not on your life,” replied Jim excitedly. “Hell, man, he’s the attorney fur the cattle fellers.”

“He is a gentleman,” exclaimed Roderick, “and if he is the attorney for the cow men, so much the better. He would advise the bosses of this contemplated lawbreaking raid and murder, and of course they would immediately take steps to keep the cowboys from committing such wickedness.”

Jim Rankin’s black eyes fairly snapped as he looked Roderick straight in the face and exclaimed: “Roderick, are yer as big a tenderfoot as that? Don’t yer know the cowboys don’t go out murderin’ uv their own accord on these here cut-throat raids? They go, by gunnies, ‘cause they’re paid by the higher ups ter do these dastardly killin’ acts. Why, gosh ‘lmighty, Ben Bragdon draws a monthly retainer fee uv several figures ter protect the higher ups an’ there yer are, plain as a handle on a gourd. No, by gunnies, while the Major and Mr. Jones keep guard here, you an’ me, Roderick, will have ter go alone an’ jist nachurally take the law into our own hands. We’ll have plenty uv shootin’ irons an’ loco the cowboys by shootin’ an’ wingin’ two or three uv ‘em, Bud Bledsoe in pertic’lar. Oh, you bet I know how to do this job,” and he chuckled reassuringly.

“Well, I don’t,” replied Roderick. “I don’t pretend to know these cold-blooded murdering ways of the West or anything of this lawless feud that is going on between the cattlemen and the sheep men. However, I will go with you, Jim. When shall we start?”

“Immediately after supper. There’s no moon and it looks a little squally. It will be darker than a stack of black cats, but by gunnies, I know the way. All you’ve got to do is to have yer shootin’ irons ready, follow me and shoot when I shoot Now I guess there’s no need my onbosomin’ myself any more,” he added with a comprehensive glance around.

Roderick was unable to repress a smile.

“All right, Jim, I’m game, and ready for the lark.”

“By gunnies, it ain’t no lark howsumever; I know yer game,” replied Rankin. “You bet I kin tell a scrapper when I see him. Now not a word to anyone else besides us four—exceptin’ of course, Boney Earnest I’m goin’ over to the smelter right now, and will arrange for him to be here tonight to help the Major.”

“And Tom Sun?” asked Roderick, anxiously.

“Oh, he’s in no danger. Them fellers are after his herders but not after the big man. They know better—the law would be poppin’ like hell if they ever made the mistake o’ hurtin’ one o’ the higher-ups.”

“Besides, Mr. Sun is at Rawlins today on business,” observed Buell Hampton. “He is riding, and is to come straight here. But he told me not to expect him until midnight.”

“Which the cowpunching gang know quite well,” said Jim emphatically. “You bet they are playin’ up tonight jist because they cal’clate on his absence. Now we’ll be a-movin’. Major, get your rifles well oiled—you may need ‘em. My ridin’ hoss is over at the livery barn, and you an’ me, Roderick, will start from there at eight o’clock sharp. Oh, you bet we’ll have tumultuous doin’s. Jist you an’ me ‘ll show these killin’ cusses they’re holdin’ bob-tailed flushes fur oncet. They won’t show up here for the gold ore after we’re through with ‘em. Reminds me uv the old sheriff days, boys. An’ its ‘lmighty good to be back to them,” he added, pushing his hat back on his head determinedly.

“I think we must put you up for sheriff again next election,” laughed Grant Jones.

“That’s just what I’m prognosticatin’,” replied the rugged old frontiersman, with a grim smile. “Folks will see who’s the real sheriff tonight—me or that white-livered double-dealin’ cur. Mills.” And he strode away in the direction of the smelting plant, chewing his tobacco cud vigorously.

At the appointed hour that night Roderick was at the livery barn, and got ready his faithful horse, Badger. He had only waited a few minutes when Jim Rankin made his appearance. They were soon in their saddles and headed for Jack Creek.

The night was very dark, and despite the would-be sheriff’s vaunted knowledge of the country they lost themselves several times, and on one occasion had to retrace their steps four or five miles. Wherever it was possible they urged their horses on as rapidly as was prudent, but often for long distances it was a case of picking their way at a walking pace through the inky blackness. It was within an hour of midnight when at last they turned from the main road to the westward along the north bank of Jack Creek, which was the dividing line between the flockmasters’ and the cattle men’s range. Rankin explained that the bands of sheep were being held about two miles on to the westward.

They had not gone very far up the creek when they were startled by the sight of two great fires burning like haystacks. They spurred their horses and hurried as fast as possible over the uncertain and little used road, and soon came upon a weird and terrible scene. Some three or four hundred sheep had been clubbed to death and lay like scattered boulders over the ground, while the two covered wagons where the herders cooked their meals and likewise slept were fast burning to ashes.

“By gunnies,” said Jim Rankin, “we didn’t get here quick enough. They’ve sure done their hellish work. I’ll bet there’s two sheep herders an’ two shepherd dogs bumin’ to cinders in them there fires. It’s hell, ain’t it? They beat us to it for sure. But usually them doin’s don’t come off ‘til one or two o’clock in the mornin’.”

“Where are the balance of the sheep?” inquired Roderick. “I thought you said there were several thousand.”

“Why, boy,” said Jim, “they’re chasin’ down toward Saratoga as if the wolves were after them. There’s ‘bout three thousand sheep in each band an’ there were two bands uv ‘em.”

Just then four masked men rode up out of the darkness toward the burning outfits, but quickly checked their horses when they saw the two mounted strangers.

“Don’t shoot, Roderick, don’t shoot,” whispered Jim. “By gunnies, they’ve got us covered. Don’t lift your artillery. They’ll kill us sure if yer do.” Then he raised his trembling voice in a shout: “Hey, you fellers, we seed somethin’ burnin’ here. Wonder what ‘tis?”

A deep guttural voice came back: “You two ‘ll find it a dam sight more healthy to git back on the main road an’ tend to your own business. You have got jist one minute to start.”

“Come on,” said Jim, agitatedly, whirling his horse, putting spurs to him and leaving Roderick trailing far behind.

Roderick rode along toward the main road which they had just left after crossing over Jack Creek. He was disgusted with it all and with Jim Rankin’s poltroonery in particular. The sight he had seen by the gleaming light of the burning wagons was ghastly. The innocent, helpless sheep that had been clubbed to death through the selfishness of men. He was in no mood for hilarity. It was a sight that would remain with him and haunt him. Then too, he had received a new measure of Jim Rankin.

But Roderick Warfield had all the blind audacity of youth and did not give the old westerner Jim Rankin the credit he deserved. Jim Rankin was versed in the ways of these western transgressors, and knew the price he and Roderick would have to pay for “butting in” on a quarrel between the cattle and the sheep men that was no direct concern of outsiders. This price was death, swift and merciless.

When Roderick reached the highway he pulled his horse to the right toward the bridge that spanned Jack Creek. As he approached the bridge he heard someone say: “Here he comes now.” The voice was not Jim Rankin’s.

“Hello,” came a call in yet another voice, just as his horse reached the bridge.

“Come on, Roderick,” cried Jim Rankin, “I’m here.”

“Who’s with you?” inquired Roderick.

“They’ll tell you,” replied Jim.

Roderick rode up and found three men with drawn revolvers, and one of them proved to be the sheriff of the county and the others his deputies.

“Gentlemen,” said the sheriff, “you are accused of killing a lot of sheep up here on Jack Creek and burning a couple of wagons, and I arrest you in the name of the law.”

“What does this mean?” inquired Roderick, hotly.

“It means,” said the sheriff, “you fellers will fork over your shootin’ irons quietly and submit to being handcuffed.”

“Look here, Mills,” said Rankin, resentfully, “you’re goin’ too dangnation far, by gunnies. I’ll be responsible for young Warfield, here. I’ll go his bail. Dangnation, don’t press me any furder or I’ll git peevish.”

“Well,” replied Sheriff Mills, hesitatingly, “who will be responsible for you?”

“Why, Gosh’lmighty, Mills, we’ve know’d each other fur twenty-five years. You go my security yourself or by the great horn spoon you’ll not kerry Rawlins precinct next election.”

“Watch that young feller,” instructed the sheriff to his deputies. “Ride over this way, Jim, where we can speak privately.”

A few moments later Rankin called out: “Come on, Roderick, let’s be goin’. It’s gettin’ late. Everything’s all right.” And together they headed their horses for Encampment and rode on in the darkness.

Jim Rankin presently said: “Well, by gunnies, Tom Sun has leastways got to hand it to us fur tryin’.”

Roderick made no immediate reply and they continued their way in silence.

At last Roderick spoke.

“You were mighty friendly with that white-livered, double-dealing cur, the sheriff—that’s what you called him a few hours ago.”

“Yes, but he wasn’t present with a gun in his hand,” replied Jim. “He sure ‘nuff had the drop on us.”

“How did you square him then?”

“Politics,” came the sententious answer. “And I guess I put one over him at that. Somebody’s goin’ to git a dangnation throw-down, an’ don’t you forgit it.”

An hour later they descended at the livery barn. The sky had cleared, and they had ridden fast under the starlight. Roderick looked the ex-sheriff squarely in the face.

“Now, Jim Rankin, the next move in the game is going to be mine. Get your three fours hitched up at once, and bring them down one by one as fast as they are ready, to the Major’s. We load that ore tonight, and start for the railroad before daylight. Do you get me, my friend?”

Jim Rankin for a moment looked into Roderick’s eyes.

“I guess I git you, Mr. Warfield,” he replied, as he meekly turned away toward the stables where the twelve powerful draught horses had been held in preparedness for a week past.