ed, he bent one knee, pushed Clinch over on his back, lest
the ooze suffocate him.

"Now," he said coolly, "what do you bums want out of Mike Clinch?"

"Who are you?" came a sullen voice. "This is none o' your bloody
business. We want Clinch, not you."

"What do you want of Clinch?"

"Take your gun off us!"

"Answer, or I'll let go at you. What do you want of Clinch?"

"Money. What do you think?"

"You're here to stick up Clinch?" enquired Smith.

"Yes. What's that to you?"

"What has Clinch done to you?"

"He stuck _us_ up, that's what! Now, are you going to keep out of
this?"

"No."

"We ain't going to hurt Clinch."

"You bet you're not. Where's the rest of your gang?"

"What gang?"

"Quintana's," said Smith, laughing. A wild exhilaration possessed him.
His flanks and rear were protected by the sink-hole. He had Quintana's
gang -- two of them -- over his pistol.

"Turn your backs and sit down," he said. As the shadowy forms
hesitated, he picked up a stick and hurled it at them. They sat down
hastily, hands up, backs toward him.

"You'll both die where you sit," remarked Smith, "if you yell for help."

Clinch sighed heavily, stirred, groped on the damp leaves with his
hands.

"I say," began the voice which Smith identified as Harry Beck's, "if
you'll come in with us on this it will pay you, young man."

"No," drawled Smith, "I'll go it alone."

"It can't be done, old dear. You'll see if you try it on."

"Who'll stop me? Quintana?"

"Come," urged Beck, "and be a good pal. You can't manage it alone.
We've got all night to make Clinch talk. I now how, too. You'll get
your share----"

"Oh, stow it," said Smith, watching Clinch, who was reviving. He sat up
presently, and put both hands over his head. Smith touched him silently
on the shoulder and he turned his heavy, square head in a dazed way.
Blood striped his visage. He gazed dully at Smith for a little while,
then, seeming to recollect, the old glare began to light his pale eyes.

The next instant, however, Beck spoke again, and Clinch turned in
astonishment and saw the two figures sitting there with backs toward
Smith and hands up.

Clinch stared at the squatting forms, then slowly moved his head and
looked at Smith and his levelled pistol.

"We know how to make a man squeal," said Harry Beck suddenly. "He'll
talk. We can make Clinch talk, no fear! Leave it to us, old pal. Are
you with us?" He started to look