lowly down to his heels
there was a sardonic grin on his brown face. In outguessing Tighe he
had slipped one little mental cog, after all, and the chances were that
he would pay high for his error. A man had been lying in the mesquite
close to the creek watching him all the time. He knew it because he
had caught the flash of light on the rifle barrel that covered him.

The gold-digger beckoned with his hat as he called out. "Come right
along to the party. You're welcome as a frost in June."

A head raised itself cautiously out of the brush. "Don't you move, or
I'll plug lead into you."

"I'm hog-tied," answered Dingwell promptly. His mind worked swiftly.
The man with the drop on him was Chet Fox, a hanger-on of the
Rutherford gang, just as he had been seventeen years before when he
betrayed John Beaudry to death. Fox was shrewd and wily, but no
gunman. If Chet was alone, his prisoner did not propose to remain one.
Dave did not intend to make any fool breaks, but it would be hard luck
if he could not contrive a chance to turn the tables.

"Reach for the roof."

Dingwell obeyed orders.

Fox came forward very cautiously. Not for an instant did his beady
eyes lift from the man he covered.

"Turn your back to me."

The other man did as he was told.

Gingerly Fox transferred the rifle to his left hand, then drew a
revolver. He placed the rifle against the fork of a young aspen and
the barrel of the six-gun against the small of Dingwell's back.

"Make just one break and you're a goner," he threatened.

With deft fingers he slid the revolver of the cattleman from its
holster. Then, having collected Dingwell's rifle, he fell back a few
steps.

"Now you can go on with those health exercises I interrupted if you've
a mind to," Fox suggested with a sneer.

His prisoner turned dejected eyes upon him. "That's right. Rub it in,
Chet. Don't you reckon I know what a long-eared jackass I am?"

"There's two of us know it then," said Fox dryly. "Now, lift that
gunnysack to your saddle and tie it on behind."

This done, Fox pulled himself to the saddle, still with a wary eye on
his captive.

"Hit the trail along the creek," he ordered.

Dingwell moved forward reluctantly. It was easy to read chagrin and
depression in the sag of his shoulders and the drag of his feet.

The pig eyes of the fat little man on horseback shone with triumph. He
was enjoying himself hugely. It was worth something to have ta