The Dean understood instantly.  “My horse, quick, Curly,” he said, and hurried on toward the saddle shed.  “Which way did they go?” he asked, as he mounted.

“Toward the cedars on the ridge where it happened,” came the answer.  “Do you want me?”

“No.  Don’t let them know in the house,” came the reply.  And the Dean was gone.

The little company of horsemen, with Patches in their midst, had reached the scene of the shooting, and had made their simple preparations.  From that moment when they had covered him with their guns as he stepped through the corral gate, he had not spoken.

“Well, sir,” said the spokesman, “have you anything to say before we proceed?”

Patches shook his head, and wonderingly they saw that curious mocking smile on his lips.

“I don’t suppose that any remarks I might make would impress you gentlemen in the least,” he said coolly.  “It would be useless and unkind for me to detain you longer than is necessary.”

An involuntary murmur of admiration came from the circle.  They were men who could appreciate such unflinching courage.

In the short pause that followed, the Dean, riding as he had not ridden for years, was in their midst.  Before they could check him the veteran cowman was beside Patches.  With a quick motion he snatched the riata from the cowboy’s neck.  An instant more, and he had cut the rope that bound Patches’ hands.

“Thank you, sir,” said Patches calmly.

“Don’t do that, Will,” called Jim Reid peremptorily.  “This is our business.”  In the same breath he shouted to his companions, “Take him again, boys,” and started forward.

“Stand where you are,” roared the Dean, and as they looked upon the stern countenance of the man who was so respected and loved throughout all that country, not a man moved.  Reid himself involuntarily halted at the command.

“I’ll do this and more, Jim Reid,” said the Dean firmly, and there was that in his voice which, in the wild days of the past, had compelled many a man to fear and obey him.  “It’s my business enough that you can call this meetin’ off right here.  I’ll be responsible for this man.  You boys mean well, but you’re a little mite too previous this trip.”

“We aim to put a stop to that thievin’ Tailholt Mountain outfit, Will,” returned Reid, “an’ we’re goin’ to do it right now.”

A murmur of agreement came from the group.

The Dean did not give an inch.  “You’ll put a stop to nothin’ this way; an’ you’ll sure start somethin’ that’ll be more than stealin’ a few calves.  The time for stringin’ men up promiscuous like, on mere suspicion, is past in Arizona.  I reckon there’s more Cross-Triangle stock branded with the Tailholt Mountain iron than all the rest of you put together have lost, which sure entitles me to a front seat when it comes, to the show-down.”

“He’s right, boys,” said one of the older men.