Hollis had demonstrated the fact that a majority of Dry Bottom’s citizens welcomed the law. Dry Bottom had had a law, to be sure–the law of the six-shooter, with the cleverest man “on the trigger” as its chief advocate. Few men cared to appear before such a court with an argument against its jurisdiction. The law, as the citizens of Dry Bottom had seen it, was an institution which frowned upon such argument. Few men cared to risk an adverse decision of the established court to advocate laws which would come from civilized authority; they had remained silent against the day when it would come in spite of the element that had scoffed at it. And now that day had arrived. The Law had come.

Even the evil element knew it. The atmosphere was vibrant with suppressed excitement; in the stores men and women were congregated; in the saloons rose a buzz of continuous conversation. On the street men greeted one another with subdued voices, or halted one another to discuss the phenomenon. In a dozen conspicuous places were posted flaring, printed notices, informing the reader that a thousand of the Circle Cross cattle–a description of which followed–were, on the following day, to be sold to the highest bidder. Below this announcement, in small, neat print, was quoted the Law.

Dry Bottom gasped. The saloons swarmed. In the Fashion two bartenders and the proprietor labored heroically to supply their customers with the liquid stimulant which would nerve them to look upon Ben Allen’s posters with a certain degree of equanimity. The reckless element–the gun-men who in a former day were wont to swagger forth with reckless disregard for the polite conventions–skulked in the background, sneering at this thing which had come to rob them of their power and which, they felt, presaged their ultimate downfall.

But Dry Bottom ignored the gun-men, or smiled blandly at them, giving its attention to Ben Allen’s posters and discussing a rumor which had gained rapid credence, to the effect that the new governor had telegraphed Allen that he would hold a detail of United States soldiers in readiness for any contingency.The good citizens smiled. And throughout the day many of them passed and repassed the Kicker office, anxious to get a glimpse of the man who had been instrumental in bringing about this innovation.

Shortly after noon on the same day Dunlavey rode into Dry Bottom, dismounted, hitched his pony to the rail in front of the Fashion, and entered.

In former days Dunlavey’s appearance within the doors of the Fashion was the signal for boisterous greetings. For here might always be found the law’s chief advocates. To-day, however, there were no greetings. Minds were filled with vague and picturesque conjecture concerning Dunlavey’s probable actions and the outcome of this strange affair. Thus upon Dunlavey’s entrance a silence–strange and awkward–fell in the bar-room. There were short nods and men fell away from Dunlavey as he crossed the room and came to a halt before one of Ben Allen’s posters. He read every line of it–every word. No man interrupted him. Then, finishing his reading, he turned and faced the crowd, his face white with wrath, his lips snarling.

“Why in hell didn’t some of you damned fools tear this down?” he demanded.

No man felt it incumbent upon him to reply to this and Dunlavey watched them for an instant, sneering, his eyes glittering menacingly. Then he suddenly turned, seized the poster, savagely tore it into pieces, hurled the pieces to the floor, and stamped upon them. Then he turned again to the silent crowd, his face inflamed, his voice snapping with a bitter, venomous sarcasm.

“Scared!” he said. “Scared out clean–like a bunch of coyotes runnin’ from the daylight!” He made a strange sound with his lips, expressing his unutterable contempt for men so weakly constituted.

“Quit!” he grated. “Quit clean because a tenderfoot comes out here and tries to run things! So long as things come your way you’re willing to stick it out, but when things go the other way–Ugh!”

He turned abruptly, strode out through the door, mounted his pony, and rode rapidly down the street. Several of the men, who went to the door after his departure, saw him riding furiously toward the Circle Cross.

Then one of his former friends laughed harshly–sarcastically. “I reckon that there tenderfoot is botherin’ Big Bill a whole lot,” he said as he turned to the bar.

It had been a busy day for Hollis. His hand had been shaken so much that it pained him. The day had been a rather warm one for the season and so when late in the afternoon Norton rode into town, “To see the excitement,” he told Hollis, the latter determined to make the return trip to the Circle Bar in the evening. Therefore, after a short conference with Judge Graney and Allen–and a frugal, though wholesome supper in the Judge’s rooms back of the court house–which Allen cooked–he and Norton rode out upon the Coyote trail and jogged quietly toward the Circle Bar.

There was a good moon; the air was invigorating, though slightly chill, and the trail lay clear and distinct before them, hard after the rain, ideal for riding.

Many times during the first half hour of the ride Norton looked furtively at his chief. Certain things that Mrs. Norton had told him held a prominent place in his thoughts, and mingling with these thoughts was the recollection of a conversation that he had held with Hollis one day when both of them had been riding this same trail and Hollis had stopped off at the Hazelton cabin. Many times Norton smiled. He would have liked to refer to that conversation, but hesitated for fear of seeming to meddle with that which did not concern him. He remembered the days of his own courtship–how jealously he had guarded his secret.

But the longer his thoughts dwelt upon the incident that had been related to him by Mrs. Norton the harder it became to keep silent. But he managed to repress his feelings for the first half hour and then, moved by an internal mirth that simply would not be held in check longer, he cackled aloud.

He saw Hollis shoot a quick glance at him. He cackled again, his mirth swelling as he caught the surprised and puzzled expression of Hollis’s face.

“I have a very original opinion of people who laugh without any visible cause,” remarked the latter, grinning reluctantly in the semi-darkness.

Norton’s reply was another cackle. They rode in silence for a long time.

Then Norton spoke. “This is a great country,” he said.

Silence from Hollis, though taking a quick glance at him Norton again observed the puzzled grin on his face.

“And original,” he remarked, placing upon the latter word the same peculiar emphasis that Hollis had given it a moment before.

Hollis grinned widely; he began to detect a subtle meaning in the range boss’s speech and actions. But he did not answer; it would not strain his patience to await until such a time as Norton made his meaning clear.

“But there’s some things that ain’t original,” continued Norton in the same tone, after another short silence.

This remark clearly required comment. Hollis grinned mildly. “Meaning what?” he questioned.

Norton met his gaze gravely. “Meanin’ that the ways of makin’ love are pretty much the same in every country.” He laughed. “I know there’s different ways of makin’ it–in books,” he continued; “the folks which write books make their men an’ women go at it all kinds of ways. But did you ever know anyone in real life to make love to a girl any different than anyone else?”

“I have had no experience in love making,” returned Hollis, puzzled again.

Norton cackled. “No,” he said, “an’ that’s the peculiar part of it. Mostly no one has ever had any experience when they start to makin’ love the first time. But they all make it the same way. That’s why it ain’t original. You take a man which has got in love with a girl–any man. He don’t want anyone to know that he’s in love with her–he feels sorta sheepish about it. Goes around hangin’ his head an’ blushin’, an’ mostly not sayin’ anything about it. Once he gets it into his system he ain’t the same man any more. Takes to actin’ reserved like an’ gentle. But them that’s had experience can see the symptoms. There ain’t no way to hide it.”

Had Norton looked at Hollis now he might have observed a touch of red in the young man’s face. But he did not look; he was watching the trail ahead, smiling broadly.

They had been riding through a deep depression, going toward a ridge whose crest was fringed with dense, tangled shrubbery. Hollis was about to reply to Norton’s remark when he saw the latter’s lips suddenly straighten; saw his body stiffen as he drew himself erect in the saddle and pulled his pony abruptly up. Surprised, Hollis also reined in and sat silent, looking at Norton.

The latter’s hand went to one of his ears, the fingers spreading out, fan like. “Listen!” he warned sharply.

Hollis had been listening. A low rumble greeted his ears. He looked suddenly upward at the sky, fearful that another storm, such as he had encountered months before, might be forming. But the sky was cloudless. He looked again at Norton. The latter’s eyes shone brightly in the moonlight as he leaned toward Hollis. The rumbling had grown more distinct.

“It ain’t a stampede,” said Norton rapidly; “there wouldn’t be anything to stampede cattle on a night like this. An’ them’s cattle!”

It was about a hundred yards to the ridge toward which they had been riding and Hollis saw Norton suddenly plunge the spurs into his pony’s flanks; saw the animal rush forward. He gave his own animal the spurs and in an instant was at Norton’s side, racing toward the ridge. The range boss dismounted at the bottom, swiftly threw the reins over his pony’s head, and running stealthily toward the crest. Hollis followed him. When he reached Norton’s side the latter was flat on a rim rock at the edge of a little cliff, behind some gnarled brush. Below them the country stretched away for miles, level, unbroken, basking in the moonlight. Hollis recognized the section as that through which he had traveled on the night he had been overtaken by the storm–the big level that led to Big Elk crossing, where he had met Dunlavey and his men that night.

Looking out upon the plain he held his breath in amazement. During the time he had been at the Circle Bar he had seen cattle running, but never had he seen them run like this. About a quarter of a mile from the ridge on which he and Norton stood rose a dust cloud–moving swiftly. But ahead of the cloud, heads down, their horns tossing were a number of cattle, perhaps fifty, racing furiously. They were running parallel with the ridge and would probably pass it. Behind and flanking them raced several cowboys, silent, driving with their quirts.

“Rustlers!” came Norton’s voice from beside him. “They’re headin’ for Big Elk!”

Hollis had brought his rifle, which he had carried since the attack on the night of the storm. At Norton’s word he raised it. But Norton’s hand touched his and his voice came again, sharply, commandingly.

“Don’t shoot!” he said. “It wouldn’t do any good; some of them would get away. Mebbe they’ll come close enough so’s we can see who they are!”

Hollis waited breathlessly. It seemed that but an instant had passed from the time he had caught a first glimpse of them until they were thundering by the ridge and he and Norton were blinded by the dust. They had gone before the dust settled, but through it as they passed, Hollis had caught sight of a familiar figure. Before the thunder of hoofs had died away Hollis felt Norton’s hand on his arm and his voice in his ear.“Dunlavey!”

There could be no doubt of that, for Hollis had recognized him also. He turned, to hear Norton’s dry voice in his ear.

“The new law don’t seem to be botherin’ Dunlavey a heap,” he said.

Hollis stepped boldly out on the ridge, his face grim and pale. But he was pulled back by Norton. “I take it you don’t want to let them see you,” he said. “When a thing like that comes off there’s always somebody sure to be lookin’ back.” He was pulling at Hollis’s arm, directing his steps down the slope toward where they had left the horses. “You an’ me ain’t enough,” he was saying to Hollis; “we’ll hit the breeze to the Circle Bar, get some of the boys, an’ hustle back here an’ take them cattle!”

Hollis accompanied him willingly as far as the horses. Then he halted, his eyes flashing brightly. “We won’t go to the Circle Bar,” he said. “We won’t fight them like that. There is a law in this country now and I am going to see that the law acts!” He seized Norton’s arm in a firm commanding grip. “You follow them,” he directed. “From the edge of the butte where they caught me on the night of the storm you can see the country for miles. Don’t cross the river,” he warned. “Stay there beside the butte until I come back–I won’t be long. Watch where they take the cattle!”

Before Norton could offer a word of objection he was on his pony and racing over the back trail at terrific speed. For a moment Norton watched him. Then he disappeared and Norton grimly mounted his pony and rode down to the level following the trail taken by the thieves.