The men were Slim Regan and Mark Clayton of the Big 4. Regan whirled his horse against the side of the porch and at the same time, he covered Moses Conley with a six-shooter. Clayton dismounted.
“What’s the matter with you?” demanded Conley.
“I’ll show you what’s the matter with me!” rasped Regan angrily. “Keep your hands above your waist, Conley.”
“I’m not armed,” said Conley. “What’s gone wrong with you, Regan?”
Mark Clayton halted at the bottom of the steps. He held a gun in his right hand and seemed to wait for Regan to give him further orders.
“You know damn well what’s wrong,” declared Regan hotly. “We found where you cut your upper fence; so we rode down to see what it meant. Oh, we found out all right. There’s eight white-faced, Big 4 steers dead at Hot Creek. You let ’em in and then shot ’em for trespassin’, eh?”
Conley’s right hand went to his beard, trembling slightly.
“Keep your hands still,” warned Clayton.
“You don’t need to deny anythin’,” said Regan coldly. “We’ve got the deadwood on you, Conley. I reckon you’ll claim they didn’t have any right there, eh? Mebby not. But that won’t help you any. Come off that porch and saddle your bronc. You go to jail, sabe?”
“To jail?” Conley shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Regan. Put up that gun and let’s talk sensible.”