It was the last day of the fall roundup, and the sun was only an hour high above the Oregon hills. Cowboys were unsaddling at the corral, laughing, joking, looking forward to the evening in town, when with pockets full of money they might woo the goddess of the green cloth and drink enough to cut the alkali from their dry throats. Over in front of the bunkhouse squatted Dell Stewart, foreman and part owner of the Double Circle, a huge bundle of currency in his gnarled hands, ready to pay off the boys in cash. Dell smiled a trifle wistfully as he looked at the money. He knew where it would go. Those wild-riding punchers would not keep it long.…
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