on rider sweep down upon him,
said rider being heralded by a blazing .44.

"Gosh!" ejaculated Mr. Cassidy, scarcely believing his eyes. "Oh, it's
my friend Slim going to hades," he remarked to himself in audible and
relieved explanation. Mr. Cassidy's Colts cracked a protest and then he
joined Mr. Peters and the others and with them fought his way out of the
flame-swept town of Cactus Springs.

An hour later Mr. Connors glanced behind him at the smoke silhouetted on
the horizon and pushed his way to where Mr. Cassidy rode in silence. Mr.
Connors grinned at his friend of the red hair, who responded in the same
manner.

"Did yu see Slim?" Casually inquired Mr. Connors, looking off to the
south.

Mr. Cassidy sat upright in his saddle and felt of his Colts. "Yes," he
replied, "I saw him."

Mr. Connors thereupon galloped on in silence.

CHAPTER XVI. Rustlers on the Range

The affair at Cactus Springs had more effect on the life at the Bar-20
than was realized by the foreman. News travels rapidly, and certain
men, whose attributes were not of the sweetest, heard of it and swore
vengeance, for Slim Travennes had many friends, and the result of his
passing began to show itself. Outlaws have as their strongest defense
the fear which they inspire, and little time was lost in making
reprisals, and these caused Buck Peters to ride into Buckskin one bright
October morning and then out the other side of the town. Coming to
himself with a start he looked around shamefacedly and retraced his
course. He was very much troubled, for, as foreman of the Bar-20, he
had many responsibilities, and when things ceased to go aright he was
expected not only to find the cause of the evil, but also the remedy.
That was what he was paid seventy dollars a month for and that was what
he had been endeavoring to do. As yet, however, he had only accomplished
what the meanest cook's assistant had done. He knew the cause of his
present woes to be rustlers (cattle thieves), and that was all.

Riding down the wide, quiet street, he stopped and dismounted before the
ever-open door of a ramshackle, one-story frame building. Tossing the
reins over the flattened ears of his vicious pinto he strode into the
building and leaned easily against the bar, where he drummed with his
fingers and sank into a reverie.

A shining bald pate, bowed over an open box, turned around and
revealed a florid face, set with two small, twinkling blue eyes, as the
prop