At first, the two punchers were for employing old-time methods: a lynching and be done with it, "the way they manage hawse thieves over in Montana where he's from," as Roper put it.
But this the foreman vetoed as too drastic, too likely to bring unnecessary trouble upon themselves and to the ranch in case they were found out.
"Suppose we give him twenty or thirty lashes, carry him to the border and set him on foot?" This brilliant idea came from Rust who seemed to have a Nero-like enjoyment of the prospective situation. "The cayuse belongs to us and we can empound the stallion for trespassing. With all his nerve, boggin' in broad-day, the big gent won't come back this way if yuh let me play the quirt."
Evidently Murdock had more sense of responsibility than the two punchers. This had begun to work, blunting somewhat the jealousy aroused in his breast by the interest expressed in the stranger by his employer's daughter. He felt that they had caught the rider of the silver horse red-handed; yet the captive's calmness was disturbing. Besides there was no telling how Flame, long the object of his adoration, might look upon the affair. Suppose he took Childress to the home ranch and the plausable scoundrel lied himself out of their ropes. The situation would be worse than before. If only they had a confession made before the three of them and so convincing that Gallegher would turn him over to the authorities despite pleas from any source whatsoever!
"You two hobble the talk for a minute," he said to Roper and Rusty. "I've had an idea."
"Heavenly horizon, Dick!" cried Roper. "Don't let her bite yuh."
"Iders are hell on adnoids, my old ma always said," added Rusty.
Evidently the pair feared that the "party" was slipping. Whatever happened the responsibility scarcely would be theirs and both were of the sort who count the frolic before the cost. They knew loyalty, these riders of the Fire Weed, better than did many city employees; but from the very nature of their work ahorse, with its constant dangers, its exposure to all sorts of weather, its broken bones and near-death hemorrhages in the "busting" end of their game, they were somewhat hardened and keen for any diverting excitement.
Smiling Dick Murdock strolled across to Childress, whose clean-shaved lips—service habit—set tightly, rather than curled over the three-to-one odds.
"One or two small raids we might have stood for, Silver," the foreman began. "But when you come into our own range and start to build a ranch house, as if you hoped or intended to live in our midst, it's too much. A rustler's shack in the Fire Weed! That's something that can't be stood. And already you're presuming on a few acres bought from the railroad company, a fragment we all overlooked until it was too late!