Dixon, who lived north along the Wall near the Pomo settlement, lost ten head of steers, all white and deeply earmarked, unmistakable cattle that could not be disguised.
Courtrey was resenting the vague something in the air that was crystallizing into resistance about him.
Word of the stealing ran about the Valley like a grass fire, more boldly than usual.
It came to Last’s in eighteen hours, brought by 101 a horseman who had carried it to many a lonely homestead.
Tharon received it with a thrill of joy.
“Good enough,” she said, “no use wasting time.”
And she sent out a call for the thirty men.