The wind skittered a dry leaf along the boardwalk and one of the stage mules, shifting his weight, jangled the harness.  Radigan's three words hung in the still, cold air, a challenge issued and a line drawn.

The man who was helping the girl into the buckboard turned his face toward them.  "What's that mean?" he demanded.

His was a lean, handsome face with a hint of repressed savagery behind it that Tom Radigan had seen in faces before.  There was impatience in such men, impatience that could lead to trouble, impatience that might get them killed or lead to the killing of others.
"My name is Radigan.  The R-Bar is my outfit and the R-Bar is Vache Creek."

"I'm afraid you don't understand." It was the girl speaking, and her cool, cultured voice seemed to be merely tolerating stupidity in one who knew no better.  "We own twenty-two sections along Vache Creek."

"Along Vache Creek," there was no yielding in his tone, "there is but one ranch and room for but one.  I own it."

She arranged her skirt with one casual hand, and the smile went no farther than her lips, lips that were a shade too thin, eyes that were too cool and measuring.  "You are mistaken, sir. I am sorry for you, of course, but men who squat on land that does not belong to them must expect to be moved off.  That land has been in my family since 1844."

"And you were so sure of your title that you sent your insurance on ahead?"

Ross Wall took a quick, belligerent step forward.  "What's that mean?"

"Read it any way you like."  Ross was the dangerous one at the moment and Radigan's eyes held on him.  The foreman was a fighting man, and he looked a hardheaded man who would take some convincing.  "An outfit that sends a gunman ahead of them can't have too much confidence in their title."

"You accusing us?"

"Vin Cable didn't come here for fun.  He didn't take a shot at my segundo for fun and, from all I hear, he was a man who commanded a high price.  I think he was paid insurance that there'd be no argument about titles."

Flynn interposed.  "Tom, we'd better look into this.  After all, if they have a title -"

"Any title they have isn't worth the paper it's written on."  Radigan was brusque.  "Moreover, there isn't range enough in Guadalupe Canyon to winter a jack rabbit, and the only range on Vache Creek is my range.  There will be no cattle along that creek whose brand does not read R-Bar."

Hickman stood with one foot against the wall, a lean man in soiled buckskins who listened with cynical amusement.

The girl spoke again.  "I am Angelina Foley.  The land along Vache Creek is part of my father's estate, and the terms of Governor Armijo's grant are clear.  No doubt you have made improvements on the land."  She opened her purse.  "I am prepared to pay for those improvements, and to buy what stock you have."

"That's fair," Flynn said quickly. "How about that, Tom?"