an interloper who had come into their ancient domain like
others of his grasshopper tribe to fence up the grazing lands and drive
them from the one calling that they knew. If for no other reason, he
deserved hanging for that. Ask anybody; they'd say the same.

"That ain't no kind of talk," said the defender, reprovingly, "your
daddies and mine was grangers before us, and our kids'll have to be
grangers or nothin' after a while--if any of us ever has any. I was in
for havin' a little fun with this feller; I was in on it with the rest
of you to see the Dutchman hammer him flat, but the Dutchman wasn't a
big enough feller for the job. Where's he at?"

"Layin' up there on the depot platform," somebody said.

"This feller flattened _him_ out, done it like he had him on a anvil,"
the granger's advocate chuckled. "That there freight's goin' to pull out
in a little while--let's look along till we find a empty car and chuck
him in it. By morning he'll be in La Junta. He's had his lesson out of
the cowman's book, he'll never come back to plow up this range."

Morgan thought that, perhaps by adding his own argument to this unknown
friend's, he might move the rest of the bunch from their cruel
determination to have his life. He moved, making a breathing like a man
coming to his senses, and struggled to sit up.

There were exclamations of satisfaction that he had revived in time to
relieve them of the responsibility of sending a man out of the world
without a chance to pray. The man who had championed Morgan's cause
helped him to sit up, asking him with a curious rough kindness if he
wanted a drink. Morgan replied that he did. A bottle was put to his
lips, bruised and swollen until they stood open by the rough usage his
captors had given him while unconscious. He took a swallow of the
whisky, shutting the rest out with tongue against teeth when the fellow
insisted that he take a man's dose.

They drew close around Morgan where he sat, back against this kind
fellow's knee. Morgan could see them plainly now, although it was too
dark to trace their features. One of them dropped the noose of a rope
over his head as the one who stood behind him took the flask from his
lips. Morgan knew by the feel of it against his neck that it was a
platted rawhide, such as the Mexicans term _reata_.

"Granger, if you got anything to say, say it," this one directed. Morgan
recognized him as the one who had opened the trouble in Peden's hall.

M