“It ain’t much to tell,” said Hashknife, “and only amounts to just this: While all you cattlemen have been settin’ here on the dead-line, waiting for the sheep to try and cross, somebody has been rustlin’ every danged head of cattle in this end of Lo Lo Valley, thassall.”
“What!”
Cliff Vane came toward Hashknife, his mouth half-open, a foolish expression on his face.
“How do you know this?” demanded Marsh Hartwell harshly.
The men crowded closer, swearing softly, asking for proof.
“Oh, there’s proof enough,” said Jack.
“You can ride the hills all day between here and Totem City and never see a head of stock. I tell you Hartley is right. We found where the rustlers live. It’s in that old shack down in the coulée near the mouth of Slow Elk. There’s nine bed rolls in that old shack.”
“Good ——!” exploded Marsh Hartwell.
“That’s why the sheep haven’t moved! Boys, it’s a game to loot Lo Lo Valley. Eph King and his gang forced us to guard the dead-line, while he stole all our cattle. The dirty thief!”
“Nine of ’em in that shack, eh?” gritted Vane. “Well, we’ll just go down there and shoot —— out of ’em, eh? C’mon, boys.”