The day he received word from the Indians he sent for Brackton, Williams,
Muncie, and Creech to come to his house that night. These men, with Bostil,
had for years formed in a way a club, which gave the Ford distinction. Creech
was no longer a friend of Bostil's, but Bostil had always been fair-minded,
and now he did not allow his animosities to influence him. Holley, the veteran
rider, made the sixth member of the club.

Bostil had a cedar log blazing cheerily in the wide fireplace, for these early
spring nights in the desert were cold.

Brackton was the last guest to arrive. He shuffled in without answering the
laconic greetings accorded him, and his usually mild eyes seemed keen and
hard.

"John, I reckon you won't love me fer this here I've got to tell you, to-night
specially," he said, seriously.

"You old robber, I couldn't love you anyhow," retorted Bostil. But his humor
did not harmonize with the sudden gravity of his look. "What's up?"

"Who do you suppose I jest sold whisky to?"

"I've no idea," replied Bostil. Yet he looked as if he was perfectly sure.

"Cordts! . . . Cordts, an' four of his outfit. Two of them I didn't know. Bad
men, judgin' from appearances, let alone company. The others was Hutchinson
an'--Dick Sears."

"DICK SEARS!" exclaimed Bostil.