But Tharon Last, muttering to herself in the hatred that possessed her of late at sight of Courtrey, raised her own doubled fist and shook it high toward him, an answer, an acceptance of that challenge.
Then they calmly turned and drove the recovered cattle down along the sloping levels at a fast trot.
The die was struck. Lost Valley was no longer a stamping-ground for wrong and oppression. It had gone to war.
That night the white and yellow herd bedded at the Holding, vaqueros rode about it all night long, quietly, softly under the stars. The settlers walked about, smoking, or sat silently in the darkened 109 living room. At midnight Tharon and young Paula made huge pots of coffee which they dispensed along with crullers.
By dawn the cattle were well on their way, still safeguarded by the band of men, down toward the homesteads where they belonged.
During that night of unlighted silence plans had been perfected in low voices, a name chosen for the band itself. They would call themselves the Vigilantes, as many another organization had called itself in the desperate straits that made its existence imperative.
By sundown the hundred head had been driven, hot and tired, into John Dement’s corrals, the ten white steers were bedded by Black’s Spring over toward the Wall. They had farther to go and would not reach Dixon’s until the morning.
And with each band there was a group of determined men.
Word of this exploit ran all over the Valley in a matter of hours. To each faction it had a deep significance.