In his code of ethics it was not a crime to shoot a rustler.

Experience had taught him that justice was to be secured only through drastic action.

In the criminal category of the West the rustler took a place beside the horse thief and the man who shot from behind.
But before taking any action Ferguson must be convinced of the guilt of the man he was hunting, and nothing had yet occurred that would lead him to suspect Radford.

He did not speculate on what course he would take should circumstances prove Radford to be the thief.

Would the fact that he was Mary Radford's brother affect his decision?
He preferred to answer that question when the time came--if it ever came.
One thing was certain; he was not shooting anyone unless the provocation was great.
His voice was purposely loud when he called "Whoa, Mustard!" to his pony, but his eyes were not purposely bright and expectant as they tried to penetrate the semi-darkness of the interior of the cabin for a glimpse of Miss Radford.
He heard a movement presently, and she was at the door looking at him, her hands folded in her apron, her eyes wide with unmistakable pleasure.
"Why, I never expected to see you again!" she exclaimed.
She came out and stood near the edge of the porch, making a determined attempt to subdue the flutter of excitement that was revealed in a pair of very bright eyes and a tinge of deep color in her cheeks.
"Then I reckon you thought I had died, or stampeded out of this country ?" he answered, grinning.