It was getting along into August. In every cup and hollow of the Deep Heart hills the was deep and . Cattle, through the broken country, waxed and fat. They had nothing to do but fill their paunches in the sunlit and chew their cuds on the shadowed slopes.  
Bossick, riding his range one day, came upon Big Basford and Sud Provine down toward the upper reaches of Nameless.
 
Their horses were tired, giving evidence of hard going, and the cattleman stopped and looked at them with hostile eyes.
 
“Pretty far off your stamping ground, ain’t you?” he asked.
 
Provine grinned.
 
He was a slow-moving individual with a bad black eye and a reputation with the gun that always rode his , though he had been mild enough on Nameless. It was the little wimple of trailing whispers which had come into the country behind him that had put the brand upon him.
 
“Are so,” he answered , “but hit’s free range land at that, ain’t it?”
 
“In theory, yes,” said Bossick, “but it’s about time practice changed matters. I’m about fed up on theory—and so are a few others in this man’s country. I’d take it well if you and all your stayed on the south side of Mystery where you belong. Your stock don’t range this far in the Upper Country.”
 
“Is that so,” drawled the other, “an’ who says so?”
 
“I do,” said Bossick quietly, “and I’m only giving you a warning, Provine, which you’d better . You can take the word to Kate Cathrew, too. Her high-handed methods don’t set any too well with us—and we don’t care who knows it.”
 
“To hell with you and your warnings!” Big Basford, his ugly temper rising. “Sky Line’s too strong for any damned bunch of backwoods buckaroos, an’ don’t you forget it! We’re——”
 
“Shut up!” snapped Provine, and rode away.
 
“Selwood’s right,” Bossick as he looked after them, “they’re a precious lot of cut-throats.”
 
At Sky Line there was activity.
 
Kate Cathrew was beef.
 
Riders were coming in daily with little bunches of cattle, all in good condition, which they into the corrals.
 
Day and night the air was with the endless .
 
It was a little early for the drive—but then Cattle Kate was always early. And this year she had a particular reason for precipitancy. One of those New York letters had said, “——would like to come a little sooner, if possible, so let’s clean up .”
 
The word of those letters was law to her. If they had said “ship” in December, she would have tried to do so.
 
Now she was out on Bluefire from dawn to dark herself, and there was little or nothing escaped her eyes. She knew to a nicety how many yearlings were on the slopes of Mystery, the number of weaning , the that were ready for and those that were not.
 
When Provine carried her Bossick’s message verbatim the red flush of anger rose in her face again and she struck the stallion a vicious cut with her quirt.
 
Bluefire rose on his legs, pawing, and shook his head in rage, the wild blood struggling with the tame in him.
 
“If Bossick ever speaks to you again,” said Kate, “you tell him to go to hell, and that Kate Cathrew said so.”
 
“I did,” said Basford, grinning, “and Sud objected.”
 
“Where’s your allegiance to Sky Line?” she asked Provine instantly, “must Basford show you ?”
 
“I can show him discretion,” said Provine, evenly, “an’ hit don’t take much brains to see that. Do you want these ranchers t’ begin ridin’ hard on us—nights, for instance, an’ now?”
 
Kate frowned and tapped her boot.
 
“The devil his due,” she said presently, “you’re right, Provine,” and turned away.
 
The corrals were choked with cattle.
 
Sky Line was ready for its drive.
 
On the last night before the start there was a tenseness in everything about the busy place. Kate Cathrew was everywhere. She saw what horses were ready for use, sharply with every rider to make sure he knew what he was to do, and told Rod Stone once more to get out of the kitchen.
 
The boy laughed, but Minnie Pine glanced after her with smouldering eyes.
 
“She’s a devil—the Boss,” she told Josefa, “I hate her.”
 
After the early supper Caldwell, Provine, Basford and four others, saddled fresh horses and rode away.
 
It was dark of the moon—as it was always when Sky Line gathered beef—a soft windy dark, ideal for the of riders, the disguising of sounds.
 
They dropped down the mountain at an angle, heading northwest to circle the end of Mystery, and they followed no trail.
 
They were all armed and all wore dark clothing.
 
The only point of light about them was the grey horse which Provine rode.
 
Kate Cathrew had about that horse, but the Texan who feared neither man, beast or devil, had slapped its rump affectionately and refused to ride any other.
 
“If that damned nosey sheriff hits my trail on his long-legged bay I want old Silvertip under me,” he had said, “I don’t aim to decorate no records for him.”
 
“Are you saying you won’t obey me?” the boss had asked in a voice of ice.
 
“Yes, ma’am, in this particular instance.”
 
“Do you know Lawrence Arnold will soon be here?”
 
“Well?”
 
“You know what he can do to you?”
 
“Shore. But—I’ll risk it—for Silvertip.”
 
So he had mounted and the woman was thankful that none of the other riders had heard the insubordination.
 
Provine was , and she held her peace.
 
Caldwell, leading, kept well up on the slope above the river and after two hours’ hard going they were well around the northwest end of Mystery which flared like a lady’s old-fashioned skirt, and heading down into the glades that broke the of the Upper Country.
 
Here Bossick, a rich man, ran his cattle and had his holding.
 
His ranch lay well back from the river and up, but his stock ranged down. That was why it had been easy for the mysterious rustlers of Nameless River.
 
These men did not talk.
 
They rode with a purpose and they were alert to every sound, their nerves were as .
 
Where the glades came down toward the river they dropped to the level and presently rode up along a smooth green floor that led directly toward Bossick’s place, though a sharp cut it off at the head. The from the ranch to the river lay over this ridge and parallel to it.
 
As they up the the little wind that drew down from the cañon at its head brought the of cattle, and presently they came upon a horse and rider like a statue in the shadows.
 
Caldwell drew sharply.
 
“Dickson?” he asked in a low voice.
 
“O. K.” came the answer as the other moved forward to join them.
 
“Seventy-one head,” he said quietly, “and all ready.”
 
“Then let’s get busy,” said the foreman, “and get out of here.”
 
With pre-arranged and concerted action the seven men divided and circled the which was bedded and quiet. On the further edge they were joined by another shadowy rider, and with silence and dispatch they got the cattle up and moving.
 
They made little noise, drifting down the level floor of the glade in a close-packed bunch. At its mouth they headed south along the shore of the river and followed along the stream for a matter of several miles. Where the western end of Mystery turned, Nameless curved and went down along the ridge’s foot in a wide and flow. It was here that the drivers forced the cattle to the water and kept them in it, riding in a string along the edge. This was particular work and took and dispatch.
 
The bewildered stock tried at first to come out, but everywhere along the shore were met with the crack of the long whips, the resistance of the string of horsemen, so that presently, following the several steers which traveled in the lead, the whole herd splashed and floundered along the sandy bottom of the river, knee deep in water.
 
This was the trick which had baffled cattleland, and it was both easy and clever, comparatively.
 
And so Bossick’s seventy-one head of steers were disappearing and there was none to see.
 
That is, at this stage of the .
 
There was one to see—one who had spent many weary weeks of night riding, of patient watching which had seemed likely to be unrewarded—Sheriff Price Selwood sitting high on the slope above Kate Cathrew’s trail, as he had so often, following his “hunch” and the John Smith’s discovery.
 
Since that ride up Blue Stone Cañon he had taken turns with Smith in Cattle Kate’s outfit, but nothing had taken place.
 
Now he sat in tedious silence, listening to the night sounds, that any one was out from Sky Line, since Caldwell and his companions had dropped diagonally down the slope in their going, passing far above him.
 
For an hour he sat, slouching sidewise in his saddle, his hat pulled over his eyes. The bay horse stood in hip-dropped rest, drowsing comfortably.
 
It was well after midnight, judging by the stars in the dark sky, when Selwood suddenly held the breath he was drawing into his lungs.
 
He had heard a cattle-brute .
 
For a moment he was still as death.
 
Then he straightened up, every nerve taut.
 
He heard the sounds of cattle, the crack of whips, the unmistakable of moving bodies. As it all came nearer below him he caught the swish and splash of water, and knew he was at last witnessing a raid of rustlers, one of the mysterious “disappearances” which had puzzled all the Deep Heart country for so long.
 
He wished that Smith were with him—that Bossick and Jermyn and all the rest were there.
 
His heart was beating............