But dead.

Dead men don't talk.

Thet's why we're close-mouthed." Steele's face wore a dark, somber sternness.
Rustling cattle was not intolerable.

Western Texas had gone on prospering, growing in spite of the horde of rustlers ranging its vast stretches; but this cold, secret, murderous hold on a little struggling community was something too strange, too terrible for men to stand long.
It had waited for a leader like Steele, and now it could not last.
Hoden's revived spirit showed that.
The ranger was about to speak again when the clatter of hoofs interrupted him.

Horses halted out in front.
A motion of Steele's hand caused me to dive through a curtained door back of Hoden's counter.