out of his window upon the cavalcade escorting the Killer to jail the little scout of the range understood that now the two grappling forces, the barons of the horned cattle and the owners of the sheep, with their allies of the town, had come to a death lock. The blundering of Von Tromp had clinched upon the cattle clan the onus of murder suborned by gold, however clean might be the hands of the faithful retainers in the saddle,—the riders of the plains.
Zang Whistler had executed a master stroke by riding boldly into town; he had become a hero in the eyes of the town and definitely exalted himself as a leader against the cattlemen. The town mob unquestionably would release him from jail, if, indeed, Sheriff Agnew had made the gesture of putting him behind bars. The leader of the Teapot Spout gang of outlawed cow-punchers and brand burners would ride free to prey upon the cattle outfits at will.
Original, pacing before the deserted Capitol Saloon and provoked to a burning restlessness by the uproar a few blocks up the street, came to a stern resolution. He would clean out the Spout at once, perhaps catch Whistler before he could get back to his hole in the mountains,
