Beasley knew his men. And in every eye he saw that they were with him now. Nor could anything have pleased him more than when Curly shouted his sudden sympathy.
"Beasley's right, boys," he cried. "She's brought the rotten luck. She must go. Who's to say whose turn it'll be next?"
"Bully for you," cried Beasley. "Curly's hit it. Who's the next victim of the rotten luck of this Golden Woman?"
His final appeal carried the day. The men shouted a general approval, and Beasley reveled inwardly in his triumph. He had played his hand with all the skill at his command--and won. And now he was satisfied. He knew he had started the ball rolling. It would grow. In a few hours the majority of the camp would be with him. Then, when the time came, he would play them for his own ends, and so pay off all his old scores.
The Padre would be taken. He would see to that. The sheriff should know every detail of Buck's intentions. Buck would ultimately be taken--after being outlawed. And Joan--the proud beauty whom Buck was in love with--well, if she got out with her life it would be about all she would escape with.
Beasley felt very happy.