Half an hour later, when Sheriff Moreton had vanished into the growing dusk, Slade and the men to whom he had spoken, went outside, clambered upon their horses and rode slowly in the direction taken by the sheriff.
There were a score of them—rough-looking characters with eyes as reckless as those of the man who led them; and they were silent as they rode, as though on some stealthy mission.
They did not follow Moreton far; they veered eastward slightly after they had traveled several miles, and finally came to a trail that paralleled a small river, which they rode for a time.
Darkness came while they rode, and the twinkling points of stars grew brighter in the cold blue of the sky—millions of them appeared, distant, winking, shedding a luminous haze over the land.
After a time the riders reached a level near the river, and some low buildings loomed out of the haze. A light glowed through a window in one of the buildings—the largest—and toward this the men rode, dropping from their horses at the door and filing silently inside.
In a big room, from which came the light the riders had seen, were many other men.
Antrim, his bronzed face almost the hue of copper in the glare from the lamp that stood on a table, was sitting in a chair near the door. Some of the men inside were on their feet, expectant, suspicious. They grinned when they recognized the newcomers, calling variously to them in greeting.
Antrim got to his feet when he saw Slade at the door, looking at him expectantly. When Slade grinned, telling Antrim that Moreton had ridden south, Antrim's eyes glittered with satisfaction.
"Selden!" he ordered, sharply; "you slope for the Circle L trail an' watch it! When you see Moreton an' Lawler headin' toward town, you fan it here in a hurry!"
A tall man with two guns sagging at his hips leaped to the door and plunged out. In the silence that followed his departure, they could hear the thudding of hoofs that marked his going.