g
yourself."

"By God, I say you shall!"

The cattleman's eyes took on their stony, snake-like look. His hand did
not move by so much as an inch toward the scabbarded revolver at his
side.

"All right. Come a-shooting. I see you've got a gun under that pillow."

The weapon leaped into sight. "You're right I have! I'll drill you full
of holes as soon as wink."

Weaver laughed contemptuously. "Begin pumping, son."

"I'm going to take my sister home with me. You'll give orders to your
men to that effect."

"Guess again."

"I tell you I'll shoot your hide full of holes if you don't!" cried the
excited boy.

"Oh, no, you won't."

Buck Weaver was flirting with death, and he knew it. The very breath of
it fanned his cheek. During that moment he lived gloriously; for he was
a man who revelled in his sensations. He laughed into the very muzzle of
the six-shooter that covered him.

"Quit your play acting, boy," he jeered.

"I give you one more chance before I blow out your brains."

The cattleman put his unwounded hand into his trousers pocket and
lounged forward, thrusting his smiling face against the cold rim of the
blue barrel.

"I reckon you'll scatter proper what few brains I've got."

With a curse, the boy flung the weapon down on the bed. He could not
possibly kill a man so willing as this. To draw guns with him, and
chance the issue, would have suited young Sanderson exactly. But this
way would be no less than murder.

"You devil!" he cried, with a boyish sob.

Weaver picked up the revolver, and examined it. "Mighty careless of Ned
to leave it lying around this way," he commented absently, as if unaware
of the other's rage. "You never can tell when a gun is going to get into
the wrong hands."

"What are you letting me go for? You've got a reason. What is it?" Phil
demanded.

Weaver looked at him through narrowed, daredevil eyes. "The ransom price
has been paid," he explained.

"Paid! Who paid it?"

"Miss Phyllis Sanderson."

"Phyllis?" repeated the boy incredulously. "But she had no money."

"Did I say she paid it in money?"

"What do you mean?"

"She asked me to set you free. I named my price, and she agreed."

"What was your price?" the boy asked hoarsely.

"A kiss."

At that, Phil struck him full in the sardonic, mocking face. Blood
crimsoned the lips that had been crushed against the strong, white
teeth.

"Again," said Weaver.

The brown fist went back and shot forward like