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dismounted, and they rested in the dark, lighting smokes.
    When the tobacco had taken the edge off their saddle weariness, Jim spoke.
    â€œHow many of you know the Star 88?”
    All had seen it.
    â€œThen this ought to be simple,” Jim said. “MaCumber and Ball and Scoville take the north rim of that cup. Get as low down on it as you can without kicking off rock to give them warning. I’ll take Beauchamp and Miles on the south side. You got that?”
    They murmured assent.
    â€œNow, get this straight,” Jim said. “You’re to get in your places and stay there. I’m goin’ to fire that small hay barn for light. By the time it catches, I’ll be up in the rocks on the south side. I’ll strike a match when I get there. You strike one in answer to let me know you’re set. Then I’ll parley.”
    There was a silence, and MaCumber spoke up. “Parley? I thought this was a fight.”
    â€œNot your kind of a fight,” Jim said quietly. “I’m goin’ to warn Cruver and his crew off the place and then fire it. They’ll go, I reckon. If they don’t, I’ll fire the shack. Now here’s what I want understood. This is no killin’ affair. If they hole up, you got a right to pour lead into that shack to scare ’em. But once it starts to burn, hold your fire. Let every man in that crew make a break for his horse and ride out. Once they start, you high-tail it for our horses. All I want is to clean that swarm of hornets out. And I don’t want blood doin’ it. Savvy that?”
    There was a long silence, during which nobody spoke.
    Jim said, menace in his tone, “The hombre that don’t understand better speak out now. Because I mean it.”
    None answered, and Jim stood up. “All right. The place lies over this high ridge to the east. Scatter and find your holes.”
    He led the way with Ben and Miles, a feeling of uneasiness within him. There was a granite-hard and secret hatred of him among these men that stirred him to anger. They were a dare, just as an ugly bronc was a dare. While a man couldn’t make an ugly bronc like him, he could make it respect him. There had never been a showdown between the Excelsior crew and himself, but there would be, he thought grimly.
    His calculation had been right. They came out on the hogback directly at the house, and looking down and to the east he could see the close lights of the shack. The bunkhouse was dark, arguing that the crew was settled for the evening in Cruver’s company.
    Stealthily, Jim led the way down off the rim. It was steep, but the boulders were large and not easily dislodged. When he was level with the end of the rincon, he indicated to Miles that he and Ben were to stay here. They were far above the roof of the house, perhaps seventy yards from it. Jim left his carbine and descended alone. He did not remember a dog about the place, so once on the level, he moved swiftly. Talk and laughter from the house drifted out into the chill air.
    He passed the cookshack, walking carelessly and whistling, but the cook was in bed. He cut behind it to the small hay barn which, next to the cookshack, was the closest building to the house. It was a shed, rather, a roof on stilts sheltering a couple of tons of loose hay.
    Swiftly, he pulled out handfuls of hay, trailing it on the ground to serve as a fuse. Then he lighted it, watched it flare up, and walked silently back to the talus of the mesa. By the time he had started to climb, the hay was afire. Its growing flame lighted the whole scene like a torch. Once in position beside Ben and Miles, he struck a match and, getting an answering flare from the opposite side of the rincon, he called loudly, “Cruver!”
    For a second nothing happened, and then a man cautiously poked his head out the door. Catching sight of the fire, he turned and bawled back into the house.
    Jim raised his gun and laid a shot across the