down for the night before attempting his foray on Bar C Ranch.
It was after nine o'clock by Original's watch when the horses were saddled and the start was made over the deadening carpet of pine needles for the road and the nest of outlaws down the valley. A thin sliver of a moon that hung low over the western rim of the Spout gave the only light. The narrow confines of this gut in the mountains were ghostly with faint stirrings and whisperings from the willow fringe along the stream, from the occasional spruce standing in stiff dignity a watch over the valley's sleeping creatures, clean and unclean equally. As they rode, Original mapped his plan of campaign:
"Boys, I'm aimin' to cut Zang Whistler outa the herd an' run him down the valley to where we 'll meet up with the rest of our outfit in the morning. Besides the little private grudge between me an' Zang, which 's neither here nor there, I figger with him away the rest of his gang won't be so spunky when the big mill starts at sunrise. He 's always been the brains of this outfit of wolves; him gone, you 'll see the rest just chasin' their own tails when our music starts. What's more, we three can get a good lay of the ground to-night so's to make
