ipio almost beamed his thanks. The man's kindness seemed a noble
thing to him.

"You're a real bully fellow," he said. "Guess we'll start right now?"

The man turned and his shrewd eyes fixed themselves piercingly on the
little man's face.

"Yes," he said shortly, "we'll get on."

He led the way, his horse slightly in advance of the mare, and for
some time he made no attempt to break the silence that had fallen. The
twilight was rapidly passing into the deeper shadows of night, but he
rode amongst the hills as though he were traveling a broad open trail.
There was no hesitation, no questioning glance as to his direction.
He might have been traveling a trail that he had been accustomed to
all his life. At last, however, he glanced round at his companion.

"Say, what you goin' to do when--you get there?" he asked.

"Fetch my wife back," replied Scipio earnestly.

"What'll James be doin'?"

"He can't keep her--she's mine."

"That's so. But--if he notions to keep her?"

Scipio was silent for some moments. His pale eyes were staring
straight ahead of him out into the growing darkness.

"Maybe, I'll have to shoot him," he said at last, as though there
could be no question about the matter.

The man nodded.

"Got useful guns?" he inquired casually.

"Got one."

"Ah, what is it? Magazine?"

Scipio pulled his antique possession out of his pocket and handed it
over for the man's inspection.

"It's all right," he said. "Guess the sights ain't good over a
distance, but at close range it'll make a nasty hole."

Conroy took the weapon in his hand. His keen eyes noted the age of the
pattern. He also saw the battered condition of the sights, and the
clumsy, rusted, protruding hammer. It was six-chambered, and he knew
that it must be all of forty years old. One of the earliest pattern
revolvers. The sight of it filled him with cruel amusement, but he
kept a serious face.

"I 'lows that should bring James to his senses," he observed, as he
handed it back to its owner.

Scipio read his answer as approval, and warmed towards him.

"I'd say so," he said, returning his antiquity to his pocket. "You
see, a gun's li'ble to rattle a feller like James. A man who can get
around when a feller's back's turned, an' make love to his wife, ain't
much of a man, is he? I mean he hasn't much grit. He's a coward sure.
If he'd got grit he wouldn't do it. Well, that's how I figger 'bout
this James. He's mean, an' a cowardly dog.