knew that to refuse outright would be equivalent to a declaration of war. Yet he was far from having so detached a viewpoint regarding the expedition as he had at the start. Previous to his meeting with the girl he had been ready for most any adventure. As an alien gunman—a Hessian in cowboy traps, as he bitterly called himself—he would have cared little about any harm he might bring to those concerned in this range war, so remote from his home. Cattle interests or rustlers—it had made no difference to him until he had met Alma Caldwell. Since then a growing distaste for the whole business had come upon him. Yet he could not very well drop out. He would be a marked man in a strange country, and somebody would be certain to slay him as one of the invaders.

Working so leisurely that he made Asa Swingley curse fervently under his breath, and deepened the glitter of hate in Tom Hoog’s eyes, Bertram started the forge fire and performed the comparatively simple task of attaching the scraper bottoms to the wheels.

When the work was completed Swingley crouched behind the contraption and pushed it about with an enthusiasm that was almost boyish.

“You’ve been slow enough about it, Milt,” he said to the young Texan, who stood with bare arms folded over the leather apron Swingley had provided, looking at the cattleman in undisguised contempt. “But it’s a good job, all right. If anybody holes up in front of us, they ain’t goin’ to stay holed up very long, now that we’ve got this go-devil.”

It was as Swingley said. The machine would afford protection for two men, who might push it with their hands under the very muzzles of rifles and revolvers. Bullets might rattle against that thick shield of iron, but the men behind it would be safe.

“Old Jim had the right idea!” exclaimed Swingley, “and you’ve worked it out in good shape, Milt. It’s time for the crowd to be comin’ up, and, if I ain’t mistaken, you can see this go-devil tried out, purty quick after daylight.”

As Swingley spoke, the advance guard of the command could be heard coming, and soon the road by the blacksmith shop was filled with mounted men, none too good-humored at being routed out before sunup and without breakfast.

“There’ll be plenty to eat after a little work that’s mapped out first,” said Swingley, haranguing the crowd. “The first rustlers we’ve got to git are not more’n a mile ahead of us, in a cabin to the left of the road, toward the foothills. You can’t miss the 

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