Shorty and a dozen Circle L men--among them Blackburn and the three
others who had been wounded in the fight with the rustlers on the plains
the previous spring--had been waiting long in a gully at a distance of a
mile or more from the Hamlin cabin. Shortly after dark they had filed
into the gully, having come directly from the Circle L.

Hours before, they had got off their horses to stretch their legs, and
to wait. And now they had grown impatient. It was cold--even in the
gulley where the low moaning, biting wind did not reach them--and they
knew they could have no fire.

"Hell!" exclaimed one man, intolerantly; "I reckon she's a whizzer!"

"Looks a heap like it," agreed Shorty. "Seems, if Hamlin couldn't get
him headed this way--like he said he would--he ought to let us know."

"You reckon Hamlin's runnin' straight, now?" inquired Blackburn.

"Straight as a die!" declared Shorty. "If you'd been trailin' him like
me an' the boys has, you'd know it. Trouble is, that Singleton is
holdin' off. A dozen times we've been close enough to ketch Singleton
with the goods--if he'd do the brandin'. But he don't, an' Hamlin has to
do it--with Singleton watchin'. We've framed up on him a dozen times.
But he lets Hamlin run the iron on 'em. Hamlin eased that bunch into the
gully just ahead, especial for tonight. I helped him drive 'em. An'
Hamlin said that tonight he'd refuse to run the iron on 'em--makin'
Singleton do it. An' then we'd ketch him doin' it. But I reckon Hamlin's
slipped up somewheres."