"Must be that new hoss we lifted off 'n the Owens ranch gettin' 'nitiated down to the corral. Some fool hoss just put the outlaw brand on to him with his teeth."
The door closed. The three against the wall nudged one another. At least something had come of the minute of peril: Zang Whistler was located.
A tense hour passed in waiting; waiting until Whistler or his companions should leave the house. For the number of them was not known, and it was not part of Original's strategy to make a sally in force which would result in shooting and the rousing of a hornets' nest about his ears. Finally through a crack in the clay chinking by their ears came the noise of a table pushed back, then heavy footfalls on the floor. The door opened.
"Next time you hold up a kicker to your treys an' catch an ace-full, Zang, you just sell me for a sucker!" a voice called back into the cabin. Original recognized as Zang's the voice of the outlaw in answer from the interior. He dared peek around the corner of the house. Five men were stalking away in the direction of the other lighted building. The door was closed, and the sound of a bar dropped in place
