branded secretly and cows killed or driven away.

"Go to it, Brill," Weaver jeered. "I'm wishing you all the luck in the
world."

He touched his pony with the spur and swept up the road in a cloud of
white dust.

Not till he had disappeared did conversation renew itself languidly, for
Seven Mile Ranch was lying under the lethargy of a summery sun.

"I expect Buck's got the right of it," volunteered a brawny youth known
as Slim. "All you got to do is to take up a claim near a couple of big
outfits with easy brands, then keep your iron hot and industrious.
There's sure money in being a nester."

Despite the soft drawl of his voice, he spoke with bitterness, as did
the others. Every day the feeling was growing stronger that the rustling
must be stopped if they were going to continue to run cattle. The
thieves had operated with a boldness and a shrewdness that fairly
outwitted the ranchers. Enough horses and cattle had been driven across
the line to stock a respectable ranch. Not one of the established
ranches had escaped heavy losses; so heavy, indeed, that the owners
faced the option of going broke or of exterminating the rustlers. Once
or twice the thieves had nearly been caught red-handed, but the leader
of the outlaws had saved the men by the most daring strategy.

Healy, until lately foreman of the Twin Star outfit, had organized the
ranchmen as a protective association. In this he had represented Weaver,
himself not popular enough to coöperate with the other ranchmen. Once