“This here town,”–read a letter that Hollis received from Weary late in September–“aint fit for no man to live in which thinks anythink of hisself, in the first place theres two many folks here which dont seem to know what to do with themselves they just keep millin around an actin like they was ready to stampead any time. In the 2nd place im runnin shy of dust an id admire for to receave about a months pay which i wont charge two you bein as ive already spent more then i ought two its a good thing i got a return ticket or id be in a hell of a fix when i got ready to come back last nite the doctor at the hospittle said hed operate on ed today which hes already done this mornin an eds restin easy though the doc dont know whether hes goin to git well or not but hes hopin an ile let you know by telegraph if he gits any worse which is all for this time.

P. S. say boss dont forgit to hustel that coin ile shure make it right with you i forgot to tell you that i got cleaned out by a card sharper here i would have tore him apart but about a million sheriffs piled onto me an i dident have no chancst what in hell does any town need with so many sheriffs.

“Weary.

“P. S. id like to be home for the round-up but reckon i wont make it.

“Weary.”

Nellie Hazelton did not see this letter, though Hollis told her that Ed had been operated on and that he was doing as well as could be expected. And the telegraph that night flashed Weary’s “coin” to him.

The days passed all too quickly now, for the time for the fall round-up was at hand and Hollis realized with regret that his daily rides–with Nellie Hazelton as a companion–must soon be discontinued.

The nights had already grown cool; snow had appeared on the mountain peaks; the basin was no longer a great green bowl, but resembled a mammoth, concave palette upon which nature had mixed her colors–yellow and gold and brown, with here and there a blotch of red and purple, a dash of green,–lingering over the season–and great, wide stretches of gray. The barren spots seemed to grow more barren–mocked by the scarlet blossoms of the cactus that seemed to be everlasting, and the fringing, yellow soap weed, hardy, defying the advancing winter. Razor-Back ridge was a desolate place. Never attractive, it reared aloft barren and somber, frowning down upon its fringe of shrubbery the latter stripped of its leaves, its scant beauty gone and bending its bare branches stubbornly to the early winds.

With the last day of the month came a rain–a cold, bitter, driving storm that raged for three days and started a drift that the cattlemen could not stop. Arrayed in tarpaulins the cowboys went forth, suffering, cursing, laboring heroically to stem the tide. The cattle retreated steadily before the storm–no human agency could halt them. On the second day Norton came into the Circle Bar ranchhouse, wet, disgusted, but fighting mad.

“If this damn rain don’t stop pretty soon,” he told Hollis as he dried himself before the open fireplace, “we’ll have cattle down here from over the Colorado line. An’ then there’ll be hell to pay!”

But on the third day the rain ceased and the sun came out. The country lay smiling in the sunshine, mellow, glistening, inviting. But the damage had been wrought. From Lemuel Train of the Pig Pen outfit, came word that fifty per cent of his cattle were missing. Truxton of the Diamond Dot, Henningson of the Three Bar, and nearly all of the other small owners, reported losses. Of course the cattle would be recovered during the fall round up, but they were now scattered and fair prey for cattle thieves, and with the round up still two weeks away it seemed that many must be stolen.

Yet there was nothing that could be done; it is folly to attempt to “cut out” cattle on the open range.

From the editorial columns of the Kicker might be gleaned the fact that the Law had come into Union County. Many men of Dry Bottom entered the Kicker office to thank Hollis; others boldly draped their houses with flags and bunting.

Dunlavey had visited Dry Bottom twice since the incident of the primary. He had said nothing concerning the incident to anyone save possibly his intimates, but from the sneer that appeared on his face when approached by those whom he considered friendly to Hollis it was plain that he intended continuing the fight.

Hollis had been compelled to record in the Kicker the unpleasant news that Dunlavey had refused to comply with the new law regulating brands and the submitting of lists for taxation, and also that he had threatened to shoot the first officer trespassed on his land. Dunlavey had not complied with the law, but he had failed to carry out his threat to “shoot the first officer that trespassed on his land,” for Allen had trespassed several times, openly and boldly. Moreover, Dunlavey had seen him, had even spoken to him, but had offered no violence.

Perhaps in a calmer mood Dunlavey had decided not to use his weapon; perhaps there was something about the quiet, cool, and deliberate Allen which convinced Dunlavey that the former might be able to give a good account of himself in the event of trouble. At any rate several times Allen had ridden the Circle Cross range unmolested by either Dunlavey or his men. He explored the farthest limits of the Circle Cross property, tallying the cattle, nosing around the corrals, examining brands, and doing sundry other things not calculated to allay Dunlavey’s anger over this new and odd condition of affairs.

Then one day he failed to visit the Circle Cross. Instead, he appeared to Potter in the office of the Kicker with copy for a poster announcing the sale by auction of a thousand of Dunlavey’s best cattle. He ordered Potter to print it so that he might post copies throughout the county within a week. The night following the issue of the Kicker containing the announcement concerning the coming of the law Potter had informed Hollis that he had that day delivered the notices to Allen.