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home ranch, still the firm hand of discipline could be seen. The harness, the wagons, all the gear that goes to clutter up a corral lot, were in good shape, kept that way by work. It was almost dusk when they turned their horses into the horse corral, slung the saddles over the poles, and turned toward the bunk house.
    A cluster of men loafed around its door, and it was for this group that Tolleston headed. The hands fell silent as they approached, and Webb felt their quiet, prying gaze as they observed him.
    Tolleston stopped before them and spoke to a sober-faced, middle-aged man who stepped out to meet him.
    â€œMac, this here is Webb Cousins—the man that held up the bank in town today, along with six other rannies. He’s the county’s prisoner, but the funds was cleaned out in the robbery, and they’ve give him to me to guard. You’ll work him like you do the rest of the men, but he’ll carry no gun, and he’ll never ride alone unless with my permission.” He turned to Webb. “This is McCaslon, my foreman.”
    McCaslon looked at Webb briefly, coldly, and said to Tolleston, “Did you say the bank?”
    Tolleston told them. Webb watched the faces of the seven men as they listened to their boss, wondering if they, too, shared this common animosity toward the neighboring county. They did. They were utterly motionless, listening closely as the story unfolded. When Tolleston was finished, they looked at each other, and then at Webb. It was McCaslon who looked the longest, and in his eyes Webb could see a hard and relentless dislike shaping up.
    McCaslon said, “And he’s in with them five and McWilliams?”—indicating Webb.
    â€œThat’s what I think.”
    â€œYou want us to lock him up?”
    Tolleston hesitated a moment, torn between his desire to be on the safe side and the memory of what Wardecker had said.
    â€œNo,” he said at last, regarding Webb thoughtfully. “I don’t reckon so. When we get proof, there’s time enough for that. But I want him kept around the place for the present—or until I tell you.”
    â€œUh-huh,” McCaslon said softly, a trace of a hidden promise in the look he gave Webb.
    The cook’s triangle clanged out into the night then, and Tolleston said, “As soon as you’ve finished eating, bring him up, Mac,” and left.
    All the hands turned, waiting for Mac to say something. He did, and said it to Webb. “Go on in.” He indicated the cook shack.
    The hands made a lane for Webb, and he walked through it into the building, his face faintly amused. The cook shack was not a lot different from most, a long, bare room containing a heavy table almost as long as the room itself, which was flanked by rough benches.
    Mac looked around at the men seating themselves. “Where’s Stoop?” he asked.
    â€œOut,” someone said carelessly.
    â€œTake this place, then,” Mac told Webb, indicating the place to his right. Webb obeyed, wondering, and when he was seated he counted the men. Six. There had been seven outside. Webb knew what was coming, for he knew cow-punchers well enough to understand their reasoning. What Tolleston had told them about him called for a court and judgment of their own, and since Tolleston had not expressly forbid them to indulge in their own brand of discipline, they had silently assumed that he did not care.
    The food was passed around in silence. Webb helped himself, saying nothing, not even looking up from his plate. He heard a man enter, looked up briefly to observe a gaunt and slouching puncher in the doorway, then turned his attention to his plate.
    â€œCompany, Stoop,” one of them said, waving a fork at Webb. Webb looked up. He wanted to remember the man who spoke for he was the one who had started it. He saw a solid, chunky man with a rather full face that suggested a kind of cross-grained innocence. The man was grinning pleasantly