nstinct caused him to make a desperate
attempt to understand what the man was saying. At first the fellow's words
seemed blurred and broken, but little by little their meaning grew clearer
to the injured man.

"... ain't safe ... suspects somethin' ... snoopin' around ever since ...
thought he was up to somethin' ... saw him up on that ledge watchin' yuh
... dead sure. I had a notion he'd ride around to this trail, 'cause it's
the only way down to north pasture. I tell yuh, Paul, he's wise, an' he'll
spill the beans sure. We got to do it."

"I don't like it, I tell you!" protested a shrill, high-pitched voice
querulously. "I can't stand blood."

"Wal, all yuh got to do is go back to the car an' wait," retorted Lynch.
"I ain't so partic'lar. Besides," his tone changed subtly, "his head's
smashed in an' he's sure to croak, anyhow. It would be an act of kindness,
yuh might say."

"I don't like it," came again in the shrill voice. "I'd--hear the shot.
I'd know what you were doing. It would be on my--my conscience. I'd
dream-- If he's going to--to die, as you say, why not just--leave him
here?"

An involuntary shudder passed over Stratton. It had all come back, and
with a thrill of horror he realized that they were talking about him. They
were discussing his fate as calmly and callously as if he had been a steer
with a broken leg. A feeble protest trembled on his lips, but was choked
back unuttered. He knew how futile any protest would be with Tex Lynch.

"Yeah!" the latter snarled. "An' have somebody come along an' find him!
Like as not he'd hang on long enough to blab all he knows, an' then where
would we be? Where would we be even if somebody run acrost his body? I
ain't takin' no chances like that, I'll tell the world!"

"But isn't there some other way?" faltered the high-pitched voice.

In the brief pause that followed, Stratton dragged his lids open. He was
lying where he had fallen at the curve in the trail. Tex Lynch stood close
beside him. A little beyond, leaning against the rocky cliff, was a bulky
figure in a long dust-coat. He had pushed up his motor-goggles and was
wiping his forehead with a limp handkerchief. His round, fat face, with
pursed-up lips and wide-open light-blue eyes, bore the expression of a
fretful child. On his left was a lean, thin-faced fellow with a black
mustache who looked scared and nervous. There was no sign of the third
person who had been in the car, and even at this crucial mom