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stop just before dusk plunged into sheer dark, eat a dozen mouthfuls of jerky, and roll into cold blankets.
    But Jim Wade was a thorough man, a general studying his battlefield. He came to understand why these squatters were reluctant to go. There were nine ranches on the lease, all of them a comfortable size, nestled snugly in some sheltered valley that cradled a hay field and full barns. It was well stocked with fat longhorns as wild and tough as the country.
    The Star 88, closest to the mountains and farthest from San Jon, was the one he studied in particular. He saw it at sunrise, when the first thin streamer of smoke was lifting from the chimney of the log house. It was prosperous-looking, a working cattle ranch with nothing beautiful about it save the fat longhorns that grazed near it and the overstuffed barns and the sleek-looking horses in the corral.
    The buildings themselves were backed into a tight rincon which, on three sides, scarcely left thirty yards of level ground before the sheer bulk of the mesa lifted up. It was Will-John Cruver’s place, a large enough one to have a cookshack and bunkhouse. Of the five places Jim had seen, this was the biggest and most businesslike.
    Jim’s only distraction was Ben Beauchamp, and for the first two days it took all his patience to tolerate this kid. He was sulky, given to fits of talking and then long silences. But when he talked, he boasted, and when he boasted Jim only grinned and called him a piker. But he never got openly angry with the kid, and slowly it dawned upon Ben Beauchamp that this was a man who didn’t care to hear of his deeds, good or bad, because he had done them all himself, and better. Ben began to take an interest in what they were doing about the fourth day. Then his weariness conquered, and he asked to go back to the Excelsior. Jim forbade, and further pointed out that if Ben left, he was technically riding a stolen horse, for which crime Jim would gladly prosecute him. To add to Ben’s misery, they rode in rain all the last day, so that when they reached the Excelsior after dark Sunday night, he was wet and exhausted and famished and too weary to be surly.
    Monday morning, Jim went first to Max Bonsell. No squatter had come in to acknowledge his error, so eviction was the next move.
    After breakfast, Jim called the crew together. They were a shaky-looking lot, having spent most of their week in San Jon, drunk. Standing on the porch beside Max Bonsell, he wondered if all the ranchers had been warned. He had only the word of Miles, Ball, and Pardee. Ball, the most trustworthy, he was certain had done his task; but the other two he was doubtful of. However, Ball’s ride had included the Star 88, which was what he wanted.
    He counted off MaCumber, Ball, Miles, Ben Beauchamp, and a slim, quiet, bearded man named Scoville, and then said, “Saddle up.”
    â€œWhere to?” MaCumber asked.
    â€œStar 88. They won’t move, so we move ’em.”
    The satisfaction in the faces of these men was plain, all except Ben Beauchamp. Resentment showed in his. The rest of the crew, Jim ordered, was to wait his return.
    They were on the trail in twenty minutes but it was not the open-country riding that Excelsior riders wished for. They traveled across country, riding hard, clinging to the secret canyons and the brush and taking advantage of all the natural shelter.
    When, after midday, Ball asked, “When do we noon, Wade?” Jim answered, “We don’t.”
    Darkness caught them five miles or so from the Star 88, and under its protection, they traveled down in the valley. Jim seemed to know his way better than the others. When they came to the canyon in which lay the valley where the Star 88 was located, Jim took the first offshoot canyon to the west. They rode for another two hours, following its devious course until it had narrowed down to an arroyo scarcely wide enough for a horse.
    Jim pulled up here and