Night settled over the Creeping Shadows country on the wings of the storm and Slim still faced a long, wet ride back to the Box B. It was unfamiliar country, but he knew in a general way the shortest route to the ranch and he struck out cross-country.

The rain fell in torrents, and he kept to the higher ground, working his way slowly out of the foothills. The long-needed rain would be worth thousands to the valley, freshening the grass which had been burned brown by the prolonged drought.

In spite of the long hours on the trail and the hard pace of the last few hours, Lightning made good time, and a little after ten o’clock Slim caught sight of the lights of the ranch. The yellow pin points of light dispelled some of the misery of the night and disappointment of having the trail washed out from under him.

The rain was cold, and in spite of the poncho, rivulets of water ran down his neck and he became thoroughly chilled. They struck one of the ranch trails, and Lightning quickened her pace. She was as anxious as Slim to get protection from the weather.

The ride in from the foothills gave Slim a chance to think over the situation in the valley. There were certainly some unusual elements involved.

First, there had been the shooting on the Sky High trail, in which Chuck had been ambushed and then the attempt to kill the owner of the Box B. It was evident that things were moving rapidly toward a climax.

Slim thought of his brief visit at Dirty Water and checked over one by one the men he had met there. The storekeeper and his clerk could be eliminated from important roles in the rustling gang, but Hal Titzell was a puzzling figure. It was obvious that he had plenty of nerve and at least an explanation for his presence in the valley, but Slim questioned whether he actually had been buying any cattle. That was something he determined to find out.

It simply wasn’t possible for cattle to disappear without some trace, and Slim wondered why the Box B cowboys had been unable to find the rendezvous of the rustlers. Then there must be a shipping point for the stock. The normal place was Mopstick, outside the valley, but there might be another loading yard nearer along the railroad that was being used.

As Slim mulled over the possibilities, he realized that he and Chuck were going to be in for some busy days before the mystery of the rustling on the Box B could be solved.

Slim rode into the valley which sheltered the headquarters of the Box B and Lightning sloshed toward the corral. Chuck, who had been listening for Slim’s approach, came running with a lantern under his slicker. He opened the gate, and horse and rider passed inside the corral. There was a pole lean-to, with a thatched roof, at one side of the corral and the horses were gathered under this protection.

“What luck?” asked Chuck.

“None,” replied Slim. “I was within half an hour of my man when the storm broke. The trail just melted out in front of my eyes and I turned and headed for home.”

“Had anything to eat?”

“Not a thing since yesterday morning.”

“Gosh, you must be starved. Lee Wu’s kept some food hot for you. Better get over to the cookhouse and fill up. I’ll go up to the house and tell Joe Haines and the boss. They’ve been mighty anxious about you.”

“I’ll eat in a little bit,” said Slim, as he pulled his saddle off Lightning. “What do you think of the outfit here?”

“Everything rings true to me, except Doug Huston. He hasn’t made a move out of the way, but I don’t like his eyes.”

“Neither do I. Maybe it’s unfair to Doug, but I’m going to play a hunch and keep a mighty close watch on him. Think the other boys suspect we’re anything but a couple of punchers?”

“No one except Joe Haines, and he knows we’re not out here just for the fun of it.”

“I’m not worried about Joe, but I don’t want the others to get suspicious and I especially want them to keep out of Dirty Water where they might start talking.”

“I guess we’ll be too busy riding range for anyone to get to town for a couple of weeks.”

“This thing will go one way or another by that time. We’ll either have the rustlers behind bars or they’ll have control of the valley. Let’s go.”

They splashed through the mud of the corral and made their way to the cookhouse. Lee Wu, who had been reading, welcomed Slim.

“Supper hot,” he said.

“I’m going up to the house. See you later.” Chuck left the cookhouse and Slim was alone with the Chinese cook.

Lee Wu hurried in with hot food. There was plenty of hash, bread, and coffee and Lee opened a can of sliced peaches.

“I’m just about starved,” grinned Slim, as one mouthful of food followed another. “Haven’t had a thing since yesterday morning.”

“Can fix more hash,” grinned Lee Wu.

“No thanks. This will fill me up. Say, Wu, you’re a real cook. I never tasted better hash.”

“Not bad, not bad,” chuckled Wu. “Like that myself.” He sat down opposite Slim and took a generous helping of his own hash.

“Catch bushwhacker?” he asked.

Slim looked up gloomily. “No, Wu. I was almost up with him when the rain started and the trail was washed out. Better luck the next time.”

“Tough place. Plenty boys come and work here while and then drift on. Afraid of getting bullet in back. No one bother Wu though.”

“Why not?”

The cook disappeared in the kitchen to return with a double barreled sawed-off shotgun.

“Fill ’em up with nails,” he chuckled. “Hit someone and phooey!”

“Phooey, is right,” grinned Slim. “I guess you’re safe enough from the rustlers. Got any idea who’s causing all of the trouble?”

“Plenty ideas, no proof. Bad business to talk with loose tongue.”

“You’re right, Wu. A loose tongue can sure get a fellow into a lot of trouble.”

Chuck stuck his head in the door.

“They want you at the ranch house as soon as you’re through.”

“I’ll be along in a minute.” Slim finished the last of the can of peaches. “Great supper, Wu. Thanks a lot for saving it for me.”

“Okay,” grinned Wu, who had warmed to Slim’s praise of his cooking.

Slim found the owner of the Box B propped up in bed. Joe Haines was in a chair nearby.

“Chuck’s told us about the rain,” said Adam Marks, his keen eyes glinting beneath the bandage which swathed his head. “Anything else happen?”

Slim recounted briefly his hard ride on the trail of the bushwhacker. “The fellow was circling along the foothills and riding pretty hard. He must have had an idea he would be trailed.”

“You’re darned right he did,” put in the range foreman. “We wouldn’t let a shooting like that go without trying to get revenge.”

“Get any clues on the fellow’s identity?” asked Marks.

“I’ll recognize the marks of his horse’s shoes wherever I see them,” replied Slim.

“Good boy. We’ve needed a couple of nervy riders like you and your pardner. It gives me new courage. We’ll whip these rustlers to a standstill.”

“I’d like to know how they ship the stock they rustle,” said Slim.

Joe Haines smiled grimly. “I’d like to know the same thing. I’ve got a hunch, but you can’t prove anything on a hunch.”

“How do the other cattlemen in the valley stand?”

“They’re all suspicious since I started losing cattle. Claim they’re being raided, too, but I doubt that. No one will work together. It’s every man for himself.”

They discussed the situation for a time and then Slim went to the bunkhouse. The other riders were in their bunks, apparently asleep, but Chuck roused up and lifted his bulk on one elbow. He started to speak, but Slim shook his head, undressed, turned out the light, and rolled into the blankets. He was worn out by the hard ride on the trail and he fell into a slumber that was broken only by the strident tones of Lee Wu’s breakfast bell the next morning.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Slim found the bunkhouse deserted, but the sound of running water and other noises informed him that his companions were outside at the pump.

He slipped into his clothes and joined them.

“Chuck tells us the rain played you a dirty trick,” said Walt Kelly, hitching his pants closer about his rotund waist.

“It didn’t help any,” admitted Slim.

“Learn anything that really gives you anything on the rustlers?” asked Doug Huston. Slim looked into the watery eyes and thought he detected a trace of uneasiness.

“Not a thing,” he replied. While the others headed for the cookhouse, Slim hurried down to the corral. He was afraid the rain had washed the dye off Lightning, but to his intense relief he found that the white spots were still effectively covered.

There was little conversation at breakfast as the punchers downed the stacks of cakes and gulped the breakfast food and coffee. When they emerged from the cookhouse, Joe Haines was waiting for them.

“We’ve got two more riders,” he said, “and we’re going to try to cover all of the main herds everyday.” Then he assigned the work and Slim found that he was teamed with Doug Huston while Chuck was paired off with Pat Beals. Joe and Walt would ride together while Lee Wu took his faithful shotgun to the ranch house to stand guard there.

Slim found Doug to be a silent riding partner, but Doug knew the range well and they worked west toward the foothills where he had ridden the day before. The rain had freshened the grass overnight and Slim marveled at the sleek, well fed condition of the Box B cattle. It was little wonder rustlers would take extreme risks to get such stock as grazed on the rolling acres of the Marks’ ranch.

They stopped at noon and ate the lunch Lee Wu had prepared, then started the swing back toward the ranch. There had been no sign of any cattle having been stolen and the herds were grazing calmly in the rich valleys of the foothills.

They were near the north boundary of the ranch when Slim sighted a lone rider and turned to Doug.

“That’s one of the Double O boys. Nels Anderson, their boss, keeps them all riding our range line. Claims he’s lost cattle and doesn’t make any bones about saying that he thinks they’re on our range. Matter of fact, I guess he did find about forty head he’d lost over here.”

“Which doesn’t mean the Box B rustled them.”

“Well you try to tell that square-head that story. We’ve all talked ourselves hoarse.”

The lone horseman waved as the Box B punchers passed a few hundred yards away and they waved in return.

“That’s Al Bass. The Double O riders are all friendly enough, but they have to do what old Nels tells them.”

They reached the ranch shortly before sundown and found the other riders there ahead of them. There had been no sign of the rustlers anywhere on the Box B and Joe Haines led his punchers to supper with a lighter heart.

After supper Slim had a chance to talk with the foreman alone.

“How many head have you lost altogether?” he asked.

“I’d say around 500. That’s a rough guess, but we won’t know for sure until the fall round-up.”

Slim whistled. “That’s a lot of cattle.”

“More than we can stand. Much more of it, and the Box B will be ready for the auction block.”

A rider appeared on the trail from Dirty Water and they watched him approach the ranch.

“I’d just as soon see a snake coming,” grunted the foreman as he recognized the visitor as Hal Titzell, the cattle buyer.

Titzell dismounted easily and faced the foreman.

“Been around the valley a bit today,” he said, “and thought you might have a little choice stuff to sell. I’ve got a special order from a Chicago commission house. Top price for choice beef. What do you say?”

“Sorry Titzell, but you know we don’t do business with you.”

“I thought maybe you’d changed your mind. I heard your outfit was a little pressed for cash.”

“You heard wrong.”

“Maybe I’d better talk with your boss,” said the cattle buyer, starting toward the ranch house.

“Adam Marks is too sick to see you,” replied Joe, barring the way. “If I were you, I’d start back for Dirty Water.”

“Very well,” replied Titzell, apparently unperturbed by the gruff treatment accorded him, “but think it over. If you change your mind about that choice stuff on your north range, let me know.”

The cattle buyer mounted and rode swiftly down the trail toward Dirty Water.

“I hope his horse stumbles and Titzell breaks his neck,” snorted the range boss.

One remark of the cattle buyer’s lodged in Slim’s memory. He had especially mentioned the choice stock on the north range, which lay next to the boundary of the Double O.

Slim was still feeling the fatigue of his two arduous days on the trail of the bushwhacker and he rolled into his blankets early, followed shortly by the other riders of the Box B.

Doug and Slim rode the same section of the range the next morning and it was well after noon when they reached the boundary of the Double O. On the previous day they had passed a bunch of steers grazing in a coulee a mile below the boundary, but the cattle were nowhere in sight and Slim and Doug spread out to hunt for them.

Slim followed their trail straight across the line into Double O territory and he turned and rode back to join Doug.

“The cattle have gone into Double O range and it looks to me as though they were driven there.”

“Then we’d better get back to the ranch and tell Joe.”

Slim gave Lightning her head and soon outdistanced Doug in the ride back to the ranch. Fortunately Joe Haines had ridden in early and he told the foreman what had happened on the north range.

“We’re going to have a showdown with Nels Anderson,” said Joe grimly. “We’re going to get those cattle back even if we have to do it with gunpowder!”

“See that you’re well heeled,” admonished the fiery foreman of the Box B as he hurried into the bunkhouse to strap on an extra revolver.

Slim made sure that his saddle was well cinched for they would be riding fast and hard.

Just before they started, Walt Kelly and Chuck rode in from the south. They were speedily informed that Box B cattle had been driven into Double O territory and that the Box B was determined to have none of that. They joined the raiding party with a whoop and all five riders set out at full speed for the north range, leaving a startled Lee Wu to guard the home place and his wounded boss.

“How many do you think were driven onto the Double O?” asked Joe as they galloped northward.

“I’d say about forty head,” replied Slim, “and from what I saw of them yesterday, they were all prime beef.”

“That’s just the kind of cattle we’ve been losing right along, prime stuff that knocks the bottom out of our pocketbook. If this keeps on much longer, we won’t have anything left to ship this fall. I never figured old man Anderson would stoop to rustling our stuff, but it looks like we have the goods on him.”

The little cavalcade whirled northward, a trail of dust mounting in its wake and hanging in the still afternoon air.

They topped a slope and looked down on the Double O range. A little more than a mile away they could see a few cattle grazing.

“Maybe that’s our stuff over there,” shouted Walt.

Joe shook his head. “They’d have driven them further into their own range.”

They swung westward along the range line to the place where Doug and Slim had picked off the tracks of the missing cattle.

Joe swung out of the saddle and scanned the hoofprints of the horses which had driven the cattle into the Double O territory.

“Only three riders made the raid,” he grunted. “They had plenty of nerve.”

Slim, looking down at the hoof prints could hardly suppress an exclamation of surprise. There was a distinct V-shaped nick in the left rear shoe of one of the horses! There had been a similar nick on the same shoe of the horse which had carried the bushwhacker safely away from the vengeance of the Box B.

Slim leaned down and spoke to Joe, and they moved out of earshot of the others.

“Listen Joe, there was a V-shaped nick in the left rear shoe of the horse I chased all over your west range. There’s the same kind of a nick in one of the hoofprints here.”

“You mean the fellow who took a shot at the boss was one of the fellows who rustled the cattle last night?”

“It looks that way.”

Joe’s honest eyes narrowed to steely slits and his lips tightened into a grim line.

“The Double O had always been a tough outfit, but I never figured old man Anderson would stand for murder. If we find one of their riders is riding a horse with a shoe like that, watch out for trouble in great big chunks.”

The Box B riders remounted and started north into the Double O territory. From the trail, it was evident that the cattle had been driven hard, but the small herd had been fairly easy to handle.

They penetrated more than a mile into the Double O range when a group of riders galloped into sight over a low hill.

“Here comes trouble,” grinned Chuck, loosening his rifle and making sure that it was ready for fast action. The other Box B riders looked at their guns and Slim’s heart tightened. Tempers were at a fighting pitch. It would require some real diplomacy to get through the next few minutes without someone being hurt, perhaps seriously.

The two groups of riders swept toward each other at a furious pace, slowing down only when they were less than two hundred yards apart. At a hundred yards they stopped, eyeing each other warily, waiting for the first break.

“Old man Anderson’s with his boys and he’s wearing two guns,” said Joe. “That means he’s on the warpath sure.”

Slim counted the Double O riders. Five men were ranged behind their boss and he recognized one of them as Al Bass, the range rider they had seen the day before.

“They’ve got our cattle,” said Walt Kelly impatiently. “What are we going to do, talk or shoot?”

“We’ll talk first,” said Joe, curbing his first impulse to shoot it out, for the Box B was outnumbered.

Joe held up his hand and started forward, calling to Slim, “You ride with me and the rest stay here and watch for any break.”

Nels Anderson and Al Bass rode forward from the Double O group and they met halfway between.

The owner of the Double O was a gigantic Swede, well over six feet tall and as broad as an ox. His huge hands rested easily on the pommel of his saddle and the butts of his six guns protruded from the holsters on each leg. The light blue eyes peered out from beneath shaggy eyebrows and his whole face was a picture of intense rage. He burst into an immediate accusation.

“You fellows got nerve,” he roared. “Stealing my cattle and then riding over here in the daytime hunting more. By gar, this is going to stop and stop right here!”

“What do you mean, stealing your cattle?” replied Joe angrily. “All we’re doing is trailing a herd of our own stuff that you’ve driven into your range. Fine thing for a man’s neighbor to turn rustler.”

The Swede’s face flushed an angry red and his right hand clawed at his gun, but Al Bass reached out quickly and seized the hand with a firm grip.

“Hold it, Nels,” he said. “There’s something wrong here. I saw Box B cattle on our range better than a mile back. They’re hunting their stuff on our territory and we’re looking for some of our choice beef on their side of the line.”

It was with difficulty that the owner of the Double O controlled his surging temper, and when he spoke his voice was filled with emotion.

“Don’t you call me a rustler again,” he warned Joe. “Next time maybe Al won’t be here to stop me.”

“Sorry, Nels, but my temper got away from me. We’ve been losing cattle right and left and this time we figured we’d trailed some of our prime beef right into your back yard.”

“Yeh,” grunted Al Bass. “There’s a trail a quarter mile west of here where about sixty head of our stuff was driven onto your range last night. Laugh that one off.”

“Looks to me like a clever attempt to get the Box B and the Double O into a lot of gun play and clean both outfits out while they were busy trying to settle grievances,” said Slim.

He turned to Nels Anderson. Briefly he told him of the attempt to kill Adam Marks and how he had trailed the bushwhacker, only to be beaten back by the storm.

“The man who shot Adam Marks was riding a horse that had a V-shaped mark on the left rear shoe,” said Slim. “We found the same mark left by one of the horses used to drive our cattle onto your range last night.”

“So you figured that it was a Double O rider who tried to kill your boss,” said Al Bass.

“That’s about the ticket,” said Joe.

Nels Anderson’s big frame shook with anger.

“Fools, fools,” he cried. “Why, Adam and I came here together. We don’t always agree, but by gar I sure wouldn’t let anyone take a shot at him.”

Al Bass leaned forward.

“I was the fellow who found out our cattle had been rustled and I got a good look at the hoofprints left by the rustlers’ horses. There’s just such a mark as you described on one of the left rear prints.”

Slim smiled a little grimly.

“I’d kind of figured there would be. Seems like these two outfits ought to forget any past troubles and realize that through a clever trick the rustlers almost had them fighting each other to death. We figured one of your boys tried to get our boss, and that your whole outfit was stealing our cattle, while you fellows were dead sure we rustled off your beef last night.”

Nels Anderson leaned over toward the Box B foreman, thrusting out a huge hand.

“Joe, your boy is right. We have been blind. You tell Adam that from now on we ride together. I’ll come see him soon. Now we better throw in together. We’ll round up your stuff and drive it back on your range and then bring our cattle back.”

They united forces and turned back into the Double O range to hunt out the Box B cattle. Slim felt that real progress had been made. The differences between the Double O and the Box B had been smoothed over and the two largest outfits in the Creeping Shadows had united for a stand against the rustlers. He looked over the cowpunchers. They were a hard riding lot, every one of them capable of a good fight and Slim knew that the rustlers were going to be in for some dangerous hours before many more days passed.

It was sundown when the Double O and the Box B riders finished the task of getting the cattle back on their own ranges. They stopped at the boundary between the ranches and the Double O cattle plodded northward onto their own range.

“How many cattle you figure you’ve lost?” Joe asked the owner of the Double O.

“Right around 350,” replied Nels. “How many have you?”

“It’s more than that. A good 500 head and maybe a few more have been stolen in the last few months. I tell you, it’s hit us mighty hard.”

Nel’s pale eyes hardened and his huge hands moved convulsively for he was a man of deep emotion.

“We shall stop that, and soon,” he roared. “Tomorrow we go see Cook and line him up. After that we’ll clean out Dirty Water and maybe that will stop the rustling.”

Joe looked thoughtful.

“I don’t think we’ll be able to swing Cook along with us,” he said, “and when it comes to cleaning up Dirty Water, we’ll have to have some proof.”

“I’m tired of waiting,” said Nels. “Action I got to have. There’s no law in the valley unless we make it ourselves.”

“You’re right,” agreed Slim, “but let’s wait until we’re sure of the gang responsible for this rustling.”

Nels grumblingly agreed that Slim’s advice was logical and they parted with the agreement that the Box B foreman would ride over to the Double O in the morning and that Nels would accompany him on a visit to the Cook ranch.

“What sort of a fellow is this Cook?”

“All bad,” replied Joe. “He runs the Diamond Dot, a small outfit that lies east of the Double O and the Box B and north of Dirty Water. His range backs right up against the Cajons. We’ve had lots of trouble with him over our water rights.”

“Has he been losing cattle the last year?”

“Claims he’s lost a bunch, but I wouldn’t take his word for anything. Unless we keep a close watch, he runs his cattle over on our range and they clean up some of our best grazing land.”

“Then it won’t be much use to see him tomorrow?”

“I don’t think so, but it will satisfy Nels, and if Cook has really been losing beef he may throw in with us. He has a lot of riders and they’re all tough birds. If the three outfits made a united stand, we’d sweep this valley clean of every undesirable hombre that’s come in here the last couple of years.”

When they reached the home place, Joe went at once to report the events of the day to the owner of the Box B while the cowboys hurried into the cookhouse, where Lee Wu had supper ready.

“Golly, but I thought there was going to be trouble when Joe called Nels Anderson a rustler,” said Walt Kelly, between mouthfuls of bread.

“There would have been if Al Bass hadn’t grabbed his hand,” put in jovial Pat Beals. “I’m telling you, my hair was standing on end.”

“We’re finally getting started on the right track,” said Walt, “even if it almost took bloodshed to get these outfits together. Believe me, it’s going to be tough for the rustlers from now on.”

Slim had been watching Doug Huston and he thought he saw the cowboy’s face twitch slightly. One thing, Doug had expressed no elation at the peacemaking with the Double O.

There was only the faintest tinge of light over the Three Soldiers as they left the cookhouse. Up at the ranch house, a light glowed in Adam Marks’ bedroom and Slim knew that the foreman was recounting in great detail the happenings of the day.

Slim walked down to the corral and whistled softly. Out of the shadows came Lightning, and Slim climbed up to the top rail and ran his hands through the sorrel’s thick mane.

“We made a little progress today,” he said softly and Lightning tossed her head in agreement. “But we’ve got a long way to go,” added Slim, and again the sorrel nodded.

Chuck came down from the bunkhouse and climbed atop the corral.

“Doing a little heavy thinking?” he asked.

“Trying to, but the results are about zero.”

“I’d like to know how the 800 and some head that have been stolen from the Box B and the Double O were taken out of the valley,” said Chuck.

“When we discover how that’s been done, we’ll be just about at the end of this mystery.”

“They’ve been rustled in small lots, but even then cattle can’t fly.”

“That’s one reason I’m anxious to see what kind of a place the Diamond Dot runs. Joe Haines don’t like that outfit a bit.”

“He didn’t like the Double O until he realized that somebody was trying to get the two outfits to fighting,” pointed out Chuck.

“There won’t be any more trouble along that line and I feel we’ve made a little progress, but not enough.”

Slim’s fingers, exploring an inside pocket, came in contact with the cartridge he had found at the scene of Adam Marks’ ambush. He had two definite clues, the exploded shell and the V-shaped hoofprint. Somewhere in the valley he must find the rider of that horse.

The cowboy detectives returned to the bunkhouse. The foreman was still at the ranch house and the other Box B riders were engaged in various personal tasks.

Slim and Chuck rolled in early, and a few minutes later the others were in their blankets.

Slim fell into a restless sleep, for even after his body relaxed his mind was working on the rustling mystery. Thus it was that he heard a slight noise down at the corral and awakened almost instantly.

Slim pulled on his trousers, picked up his boots, and left the bunkhouse silently. Someone was in the corral saddling a horse. Slim moved swiftly forward. The moon, which had topped the Cajons, was shrouded with clouds.

The cowboy detective paused beside the main gate of the corral to see what was going on inside and had just stuck his head above the top rail when a rope swished out of the shadows and settled over his head. Before he could utter a sound, it was jerked tight and he fell sprawling to the ground, gasping for breath.

Slim clawed at the rope, but it was too tight. Someone was running toward him, coming out of the corral.

The moonlight brightened for an instant and Slim looked up into a masked face.

“Smart guy,” came a hard, chilling voice. “Well, you’re not as smart as you think you are.”

Slim tried to dodge, but the other man struck him with a short, heavy club, and the cowboy detective lost consciousness. When he finally opened his eyes, the moon was well toward its zenith and his head throbbed dismally.

He tried to move, but found his arms and feet securely bound and a tight gag in his aching mouth. He managed to roll over and lift his head. He had been carried a hundred yards from the corral and deposited beside the creek. Slim tried to wriggle along the ground, but he made little progress and it was an exhausting effort. He rolled over on his back and looked up at the moon. There was nothing to do but wait for morning.

It was well after midnight when Slim heard a horse approaching the Box B. It was coming slowly as though the rider was afraid of discovery. Then the gate of the corral was opened and Slim knew that his assailant had returned. There was no question now but that one of the Box B riders was allied with the rustlers for Slim felt sure that the unknown rider had slipped away to inform the other members of the gang that the Box B and the Double O were standing shoulder to shoulder to resist any further depredations.

The aching hours went by slowly. The moon dropped behind the Three Soldiers and for over an hour the Creeping Shadows country was cloaked in the deepest night. Then the peaks of the Cajons were touched with the first streaks of another day and Slim moved a little to rest his tortured body.

It was an hour later before he was found and then Chuck saw him lying beside the creek and hurried to slash his bonds.

Slim had to be helped to a sitting position, for the circulation had long since stopped in his feet and hands. Chuck worked carefully, rubbing the bruised members. Slim cried out in pain once or twice as the blood again coursed through the arteries and veins. His tongue was badly swollen and Chuck ran for a cup of water. Returning, he took a clean handkerchief and soaked it with water. This Slim placed in his mouth, sucking gratefully at the cool liquid.

Joe Haines heard that something was wrong and came hurrying down, the other Box B riders following him. Slim waved aside their questions for his jaws ached too much to talk and it was not until he had downed a bowl of breakfast food that he told them the full story.

“Have any idea who it was?” asked Joe.

“Not the slightest,” replied Slim, deciding not to reveal that he had heard the rider return to the Box B.

Walt Kelly hurried down to the corral to look at the horses.

“Every cayuse is there,” he said when he returned.

“Then I can’t figure out what anyone was doing in our corral,” said Joe.

“Maybe he was going to run off with the horses and Slim came along just in time to give him a scare,” suggested Doug.

“Well, maybe,” agreed Joe, but it was plain that such an explanation did not satisfy him.

When they left the cookhouse, Joe turned to Slim.

“Feel like riding over to the Double O with me?”

“I’ll be all right in a few minutes. Count me in. I want to be along when you talk with the boss of the Diamond Dot.”

Slim went to the bunkhouse while the others hastened down to the corral to get their mounts. The cowboy detective was firmly convinced that someone in the bunkhouse had slugged him the night before and left him hog-tied along the creek.

With quick, deft hands he searched one bunk after another. It was not until he reached Doug Huston’s duffel bag that he found anything. Wadded in the bottom was a black cloth which might easily be tied around the lower part of the face to form a mask. Slim nodded grimly. His suspicions that Doug was the rustlers’ key man on the ranch were rapidly being confirmed.

Slim rammed the black cloth back into the duffel bag and slipped on his chaps, slung his gun belt around his hips, and started for the corral.

An excited group was gathered at the gate, looking at tracks which led into the corral.

“Look here, Slim,” cried Chuck. “One of the rustlers, the guy that took a shot at the boss, rode right into our own corral last night. Here’s his tracks going in, but there’s none coming out.”

Slim looked down at the hoofprint to which Chuck pointed. There was the telltale V-shaped mark.

There was no mistaking the V-shaped nick. It was clearly outlined in the dust and Slim stooped to look at it closely.

“Kind of looks like the mysterious rider was the guy who roped me around the neck and then left me down by the creek to hear the crickets sing,” he said.

“Maybe he was trying to get another shot at the boss,” said Walt Kelly.

“If he was, he wouldn’t have ridden right into our corral. Anyway, there’re no marks like this one coming out,” Chuck pointed out.

Slim sat back on his heels, puzzled at the turn of events, while Chuck ambled into the corral. A minute later he shouted for them to join him and they hurried inside.

Chuck was looking at his own horse but as they approached he pointed at the dust.

“My gosh, fellows, my own horse has that V-shaped mark on his left rear shoe!”

“That kind of puts you in a hole,” spoke up Doug Huston.

“Nothing of the kind,” retorted Slim sharply. “Chuck wasn’t on the range when the boss was shot and you fellows know darned well where he was the other night when the rustlers were chasing our cattle onto the Double O range. This is just a trick of the rustlers to cause suspicion in our own outfit. The fellow who slugged me last night rode away on Chuck’s horse and while he was away from the ranch he had the V-shaped mark filed in the shoe. It was clever trick, but it didn’t work.”

Joe Haines, who had been strangely silent, stepped forward.

“You’re right, Slim,” said the foreman. “Putting that nick on the shoe of that cayuse was aimed to throw us on the wrong track. What’s troubling me is how the rustlers learned we were after a horse with a shoe marked like that. As far as I know only our own outfit knew about it and Nels Anderson and Al Bass.”

“I didn’t think the Double O would shoot straight,” said Doug.

“I wouldn’t jump at conclusions,” said Slim. “When this thing is finally cleared up there’s going to be a lot of surprised people in the Creeping Shadows country.”

“Oh, you talk like a cattle detective,” snapped Doug.

“If I was a cattle detective,” replied Slim smoothly, “I’d probably be slipping the iron bracelets on these rustlers and starting them for the state penitentiary.”

“Better get a file and smooth out that mark,” Joe told Chuck. “There’s no use your cluttering up the landscape with V-shaped signs.”

Chuck departed for the blacksmith shop and Slim and Joe saddled and mounted their horses.

Joe gave the riding orders for the day to the other punchers. Then with Slim he rode north toward the Double O. After a time he spoke.

“Do you think it was someone on the ranch who waylaid you last night and rode away on Chuck’s horse?”

Slim picked his words carefully as he replied for even though he had absolute faith in the integrity of the foreman, he did not intend to reveal that he was in the employ of the Mountain States Cattlemen’s Association and working under Old Bill Needham until the showdown.

“I’m inclined to believe someone on the ranch is tipping the rustlers off to every move. That’s the only way the gang could have learned the boss was carrying money with him the night they shot him and it’s the only way they could have learned about the nick in the horseshoe. Whoever is doing the thinking for this gang is clever and dangerous.”

“He’s all of that, but he’ll never match the power of the cattlemen if we line up Hack Cook.”

Nels Anderson and Al Bass were waiting for them and they swung into their saddles as the Box B men approached.

“Anything happen last night?” asked Nels. Slim related what had occurred at the Box B corral.

“That’s no good,” he said. “It means there’s a traitor in your outfit.”

“Don’t say that until we’ve got the proof,” Joe warned him, for although he was privately convinced that Nels was right, he wasn’t going to let any outsider cast any reflections on his riders until he had ample proof.

With Nels and Joe ahead, they rode toward the Diamond Dot. Slim found Al Bass a pleasant companion and they discussed the range war at length.

“Your outfit’s pretty well loaded with men,” Slim said.

“The Box B would be if they could keep their hands on,” grinned Al, “but after those two cattle detectives were killed and a couple of the other boys got winged, a bunch of them blew out of the country.”

“The present outfit won’t blow,” said Slim.

“I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t count too much on Doug Huston. He looks like a weak sister to me.”

It was nearly noon when they reached the Diamond Dot, which lay north and well to the east of the Box B although almost directly east of the Double O.

Water on the Diamond Dot was not as plentiful as on the neighboring ranches and the grass was thinner. The buildings, almost under the Cajons, were in a poor state of repair and the corral was a ramshackled affair. Two cowboys in front of the bunkhouse looked up as the riders approached and four more men appeared to watch the visitors. On the porch of the ranch house a man pulled himself out of an old rocking chair. He was in his stocking feet and had been dozing and smoking his pipe at intervals.

“That’s Hack Cook on the porch,” said Al. “He’s a tough customer and I’ve got a hunch we won’t get any cooperation from him.”

Slim looked at the owner of the Diamond Dot. Hack Cook was almost square. His shoulders were tremendously broad and his chest was like a barrel. His face was red and his neck so short that it disappeared into his body.

“Hello, Hack,” rumbled Nels as the riders stopped in front of the porch.

“Howdy,” replied Hack, but he gave no hint that he intended to ask them to dismount and have dinner at the ranch. “What’s on your mind?”

“Plenty,” said Nels. “It’s about the rustlers. The Double O and the Box B are joining forces.”

Hack’s face reddened and his voice trembled. “Joining forces? It’s about time you big outfits did that. Now you’ll try to ruin me altogether. You haven’t been able to do it singly so you’re doubling up on me. Well, I’m serving notice on you right now that I’ve got fighting men on my payroll and we’re going to fight to the end.”

“Why you crazy fool,” broke in Joe Haines, “we’re not looking for trouble. We’re offering you a chance to join us and run the rustlers out of the valley. You claim you’ve been losing stock. Here’s your chance to prove it by throwing in with us. We’re going to give this valley the once-over with a fine-toothed comb.”

Slim had been making a survey of the Diamond Dot layout. He was surprised at the number of cowboys at the bunkhouse. There were six outside, more than the Box B carried and as many as the Double O, which were much larger ranches than the Diamond Dot.

There was the movement of a faded curtain at a window on the second floor of the ranch house and Slim started involuntarily as he got a glimpse of the face peering out from behind the curtain. It was that of Hal Titzell, the cattle buyer from Dirty Water. It was true that Titzell had visited the Box B two days before, and it was possible that he was trying to buy cattle from the Diamond Dot, but Slim didn’t like the looks of the thing as he recalled the early warning Doc Baldridge had given him about Titzell.

Nels and Joe argued for some time with Hack Cook, but the owner of the Diamond Dot was adamant and no amount of cajoling on the part of the visiting cattlemen could make him change his mind.

“Then go it alone,” exploded Nels at last, “and I hope to heaven you lose every one of your cattle, that your grass burns up and your water holes go dry.”

“They probably will if you can do anything about it,” retorted Hack.

The visitors whirled their horses about and departed at a gallop.

“What burns me up is that he didn’t ask us to eat,” grumbled Al Bass. “Our cook quit last night and one of the boys had to rustle grub this morning. We fed light.”

Slim could sympathize with Al, for even though he had enjoyed one of Lee Wu’s good breakfasts, he was hungry. When they reached the Double O, the Box B riders paused only long enough to water their horses, before pressing on toward the home ranch.

Nels and Joe had decided on night riding and Slim knew that there would be little rest for him until after the dawn of another day. When they returned to the ranch, Joe explained the new plan of action.

“We’re splitting up the range,” he said. “Most of the stuff has been stolen along our north and east line and along the south and east line of the Double O. We’ll load up a chuck wagon at once and start for our north line where we’ll make camp. Get a move on, boys, and help Lee Wu get ready. The Double O’s lost their cook and Lee’s got to cook for both outfits.”

It was just before sunset when a team was hitched to the chuck wagon and Wu, his shotgun over his knees, cracked the whip, yelled a wild Chinese chant, and the team leaped away to the accompaniment of many crashing pots and pans.

Walt Kelly, in spite of his protests, was left at the ranch to guard the boss and to feed and care for him while the others trailed out behind the fast-wheeling Wu.

It was deep twilight when they reached the site which had been selected for the camp. There was a good spring and plenty of timber. The Double O boys were waiting and they greeted Wu with wild shouts of joy for the Chinaman’s reputation as a cook was known the length and breadth of the valley.

It was well after dark before supper was ready and they fell to with ravenous appetites. The Double O riders were loud in their praises of Wu’s cooking and the grinning Chinaman served them again and again until he finally spread his hands and said, “All gone, too much hungry.”

They grinned and leaned back on the ground, waiting for orders from Nels and Joe. Slim looked them over. In addition to the Double O boss and Al Bass, there were five riders from that ranch. All of them were clean, capable-appearing fellows. In the Box B contingent were Joe, Doug, Pat Beals, Chuck and himself. With Wu to guard the camp, that meant twelve riders were available for riding the range.

Nels, by virtue of his years, took command and assigned each rider to his night’s work. Three shots, fired in rapid succession, were to be the signal that trouble was ahead.

“This is a finish fight,” Nels warned them. “The word’s gone out that we mean business. Shoot first and ask questions afterward.”

The riders scattered to their horses and a few minutes later were stringing along the east range of the Double O and the Box B. East of them lay the Diamond Dot. Slim and Chuck rode south together. They were to patrol near the trail which led from the Box B to Dirty Water.

“Think we’ll get anything by this night riding?” asked Chuck.

“We may not get anything, but neither will the rustlers,” replied Slim. “I’ve got a hunch that the key to the whole mystery is somewhere around the Diamond Dot. I saw Hal Titzell there this afternoon. He was watching us from a second story window.”

“You mean that the Diamond Dot is rustling the stuff from the Double O and the Box B and then Titzell steps in and buys the cattle?” asked Chuck.

“It might be something like that,” admitted Slim, “but I’m not going to advance too many theories. We’ve got to be careful they don’t spot us as cattle detectives.”

They parted near the trail to Dirty Water, Chuck riding further south along the east line of the Box B.

Midnight passed, and up and down the long line of riders there was nothing reported out of the way. Pat Beals was on one side of Slim and Chuck on the other. He contacted them at intervals and they talked briefly before starting the return ride down their section of the line. It was lonely work, riding the range at night, with the feeling that rustlers might be encountered at any minute. Slim fingered the six gun at his side and made sure that it was free in the holster. Then he slipped his rifle in and out of the scabbard to satisfy himself that it was ready for instant action.

The thin moonlight faded and the night became doubly black. Another hour and the sky over the Cajons would brighten, but in the interval before that Slim had the feeling that many things might happen.

He was riding north when trouble started. Behind him and from Chuck’s section of the range came three shots, one after another. Slim wheeled and listened. There was a sharp, terrible fusillade. Then silence.

Whipping his own gun from his holster he fired three times in the air and urged Lightning into a mad gallop. From behind him he could hear the alarm signal echoing up the line as other riders repeated the warning shots and he knew that they were pounding along in his wake. The rustlers were riding somewhere before him and he knew they had already silenced Chuck’s guns. With black anger in his heart, he leaned over Lightning and urged the great sorrel to even greater speed.