Purdy stared open-mouthed, for the man had uttered a name that in the cattle country was a name to conjure with. Cass Grimshaw, and the Grimshaw gang were notorious for their depredations throughout Montana and half of Wyoming. For two years they had defied the law and resisted all efforts to break them up. One or two of their number had been killed in fights with posses, but the gang remained intact, a thorn in the side of the Stock Association, and the sheriffs of many counties. Purdy continued to stare and again Grimshaw broke the silence: "Total rewards on all of us is thirty-two hundred. On me, personal, takin' Association, State, an' County, it's two thousan' even money. Figurin' on collectin'?"
Purdy gasped. What kind of a man was this? As a matter of fact, he had been thinking of those rewards. He had forgotten his own crimes and was picturing himself riding into Wolf River with a squat, bow-legged body dangling across the front of his saddle.
"Hell—no!" he managed to blurt out, "I'm—I'm a horse-thief, myself!"
CHAPTER XIV
THE INSURGENT
And so Purdy had joined the Grimshaw gang, and had prospered. Raids were planned and, under the leadership of the crafty Cass Grimshaw whole bands of horses were run across the line and disposed of, and always the gang returned to the bad lands unbroken. For nearly a year things went well, and then came a change. Where absolute unity of purpose, and unswerving loyalty to their leader were essential, dissension crept in—and Purdy was at the bottom of it.
The first intimation of discord came to Cass Grimshaw one night in the hang-out where the six sat smoking. Purdy casually mentioned that it was getting along towards shearing time and that the Wolf River bank ought to be heavily stocked with cash. The leader blew a double plume of smoke from his nostrils and abruptly asked:
"Well, what if it is?"