"Fellars, Beasley ain't here yet," he called. "Put the
hosses under the shed. We'll wait."

"Wait, huh!" came a harsh reply. "Mebbe all night -- an' we
got nuthin' to eat."

"Shut up, Moze. Reckon you're no good for anythin' but
eatin'. Put them hosses away an' some of you rustle
fire-wood in here."

Low, muttered curses, then mingled with dull thuds of hoofs
and strain of leather and heaves of tired horses.

Another shuffling, clinking footstep entered the cabin.

"Snake, it'd been sense to fetch a pack along," drawled this
newcomer.

"Reckon so, Jim. But we didn't, an' what's the use
hollerin'? Beasley won't keep us waitin' long."

Dale, lying still and prone, felt a slow start in all his
blood -- a thrilling wave. That deep-voiced man below was
Snake Anson, the worst and most dangerous character of the
region; and the others, undoubtedly, composed his gang, long
notorious in that sparsely settle country. And the Beasley
mentioned -- he was one of the two biggest ranchers and
sheep-raisers of the White Mountain ranges. What was the
meaning of a rendezvous between Snake Anson and Beasley?