The author of the anonymous notes seemed to be all-knowing. For men who had left cattle alone after getting their first notices had received no second. But the day of the deadline came and passed, and the men who had scoffed at the warnings laughed with satisfaction. For, with a single exception, nothing had happened to them.

The exception was an Iron Mountain settler named William Lewis. After walking out to his corral that morning, he'd been amazed to see the dust puff up in front of his feet. A split second later, the distant crack of a rifle had sounded. He'd mounted up immediately and raced with a revolver ready toward the spot from which he'd estimated the shot had come. But he had found all of the thickets and points of cover deserted. There had been no sign of a rifleman and no track or trace to show that anyone had been near.

Lewis was a man who had made a full-time job of cow stealing. He hadn't even pretended to be farming his spread. His land had never been plowed. He had done his rustling openly and boasted about it. He had received both first and second anonymous notices, and each time he had accused his neighbors of writing them. He had cursed at them and threatened them. He was a man, those neighbors testified later, who didn't have a friend in the world.

William Lewis made the rounds of all who lived near him again, that August morning after a bullet landed at his feet, and once more he accused and threatened everyone.