As the hours passed and the memory of the night’s horror grew more distant, he began to feel indignant over the treatment accorded him by Sanderson.  Later the indignation grew to a deep and consuming rage, and he entertained thoughts of his power and influence and of the comparative unimportance of the grim-faced man who had robbed him.

Robbed him—­that was it!  Sanderson had robbed him!

The more Maison’s thoughts dwelt upon the occurrence the deeper grew his rage.  He even condoned Dale’s action in bringing the Nyland girl to his rooms.  Dale was his friend, and he would protect him!

Perhaps Maison did not reflect that his greed was attempting to justify him; that back of his growing championship of Dale was his eagerness to get possession of the Nyland property; and that behind his rage over Sanderson’s visit was the bitter thought that Sanderson had compelled him to pay for the destroyed and stolen steers.

Maison did not consider that phase of the question.  Or if he did consider it he did not permit that consideration to influence his actions.  For within two hours after breakfast he had sent a messenger for Silverthorn and Dale, and fifteen minutes later he was telling them the story of the night’s happenings.

Silverthorn’s face grew purple with rage during the recital.  At its conclusion he got up, dark purpose glinting in his eyes.

“We’ve got to put Sanderson out of the way, and do it quickly!” he declared.  “And we’ve got to get that money back.  Dale, you’re a deputy sheriff.  Damn the law!  This isn’t a matter for court action—­that damned Graney wouldn’t give us a warrant for Sanderson now, no matter what we told him!  We’ve got to take the law into our own hands.  We’ll see if this man can come in here, rob a bank, and get away without being punished!”

At the end of a fifteen-minute talk, Dale slipped out of the rear door of the bank and sought the street.  In the City Hotel he whispered to several men, who sauntered out of the building singly, mounted their horses, and rode toward the neck of the basin.  In another saloon Dale whispered to several other men, who followed the first ones.

Dale’s search continued for some little time, and he kept a continuous stream of riders heading toward the neck of the basin.  And then, when he had spoken to as many as he thought he needed, he mounted his own horse and, rode away.

Sanderson and Mary Bransford had not yet settled the question regarding the disposal of the money Sanderson had received from Banker Maison.  They sat on the edge of the porch, talking about it.  From a window of the bunkhouse Barney Owen watched them, a pleased smile on his face.

“It’s yours,” Sanderson told the girl.  “An’ we ain’t trustin’ that to any bank.  Look what they did with the seven thousand I’ve got in the Lazette bank.  They’ve tied it up so nobody will be able to touch it until half the lawyers in the county have had a chance to gas about it.  An’ by that time there won’t be a two-bit piece left to argue over.  No, siree, you’ve got to keep that coin where you can put your hands on it when you want it!”