"It's sure a fact," replied Hoden darkly. "Men have lost cattle an'
property in Linrock--lost them honestly or otherwise, as hasn't been
proved. An' in some cases when they talked--hinted a little--they was
found dead. Apparently held up an' robbed. But dead. Dead men don't
talk. Thet's why we're close-mouthed."

Steele's face wore a dark, somber sternness.

Rustling cattle was not intolerable. Western Texas had gone on
prospering, growing in spite of the horde of rustlers ranging its vast
stretches; but this cold, secret, murderous hold on a little struggling
community was something too strange, too terrible for men to stand long.

It had waited for a leader like Steele, and now it could not last.
Hoden's revived spirit showed that.

The ranger was about to speak again when the clatter of hoofs
interrupted him. Horses halted out in front.

A motion of Steele's hand caused me to dive through a curtained door
back of Hoden's counter. I turned to peep out and was in time to see
George Wright enter with the red-headed cowboy called Brick.

That was the first time I had ever seen Wright come into Hoden's. He
called for tobacco.

If his visit surprised Jim he did not show any evidence. But Wright
showed astonishment as he saw the Ranger, and then a dark glint flitted
from the eyes that shifted from Steele to Hoden and back again.