he had been transfixed; then he lowered the
glass, shaking violently, and his face grew gray with an exceeding
bitter wrath.

"Jorth!" he swore, harshly.

Jean had only to look at his father to know that recognition had been
like a mortal shock. It passed. Again the rancher leveled the glass.

"Wal, Blaisdell, there's our old Texas friend, Daggs," he drawled,
dryly. "An' Greaves, our honest storekeeper of Grass Valley. An'
there's Stonewall Jackson Jorth. An' Tad Jorth, with the same old red
nose! ... An', say, damn if one of that gang isn't Queen, as bad a gun
fighter as Texas ever bred. Shore I thought he'd been killed in the
Big Bend country. So I heard.... An' there's Craig, another
respectable sheepman of Grass Valley. Haw-haw! An', wal, I don't
recognize any more of them."

Jean forthwith took the glass and moved it slowly across the faces of
that group of horsemen. "Simm Bruce," he said, instantly. "I see
Colter. And, yes, Greaves is there. I've seen the man next to
him--face like a ham...."

"Shore that is Craig," interrupted his father.

Jean knew the dark face of Lee Jorth by the resemblance it bore to
Ellen's, and the recognition brought a twinge. He thought, too, that
he could tell the other Jorths. He asked his father to describe Daggs
and then Queen. It was not likely that Jean would fail to know these
several men in the future. Then Blaisdell asked for the telescope and,
when he got through looking and cursing, he passed it on to others,
who, one by one, took a long look, until finally it came back to the
old rancher.

"Wal, Daggs is wavin' his hand heah an' there, like a general aboot to
send out scouts. Haw-haw! ... An' 'pears to me he's not overlookin'
our hosses. Wal, that's natural for a rustler. He'd have to steal a
hoss or a steer before goin' into a fight or to dinner or to a funeral."

"It 'll be his funeral if he goes to foolin' 'round them hosses,"
declared Guy Isbel, peering anxiously out of the door.

"Wal, son, shore it 'll be somebody's funeral," replied his father.

Jean paid but little heed to the conversation. With sharp eyes fixed
upon the horsemen, he tried to grasp at their intention. Daggs pointed
to the horses in the pasture lot that lay between him and the house.
These animals were the best on the range and belonged mostly to Guy
Isbel, who was the horse fancier and trader of the family. His horses
were his passion.

"Looks like they'd do some ho