Bedloe boys, the three of them. There were two other men who do not come
into this story. There was Henry Pollard.

"And it would be almighty like Pollard to put up a job like this," he
told himself grimly. "He could afford to pay a man a good little pile to
get me out of the game, and keep the money I've paid him and get back
his range besides. And I reckon the Kid would be one of a dozen who
would take on the job dirt cheap!"

He reined his horse a little deeper into the shadows. Then he slipped
swiftly from the saddle, one end of his thirty-feet rope in his hand,
the other end about the horse's neck, and with a quick flick of the
quirt sent the animal trotting ahead to swing about and stop when the
rope drew taut. He half expected his ruse to draw fire from somewhere in
the darkness. Instead there came a low voice, sharp and querulous,
through the open door.

"That you, Buck?"

"Yes. That you, Clayton?"

"Yes. Are you alone?"

"Yes."

Then Thornton came on swiftly, coiling his rope as he walked. For he had
recognized the voice.

"What's the matter, Jimmie?" He was at the door now, peering in but
making nothing of the blot of shadows.

"Come in," Clayton answered. "An' shut the door, Buck. I'll make a light
when the door's shut."

He stepped in, dropping his rope, and moving slowly again, his back
against the wall. For after all he would not be sure of everything until
there was a light, until he saw that he was alone with Clayton.

A match sputtered, making vague shadows as it was held in a cupped hand.
It travelled downward to the earthen floor, found the stub of a candle,
and then the greater light, poor as it was, drove out the shadows. And
Thornton saw that it was Jimmie Clayton, that the man was alone, and
that evidently his note had put it mildly when he had said that he had
struck "hard luck."

The man, small, slight and nervous looking, lay upon a bed of boughs,
covered with an old saddle blanket, his eyes bright as though with fever
or fear. The skin of his face where it was seen through the black
stubble of beard looked yellow with sickness. The cheek bones stood out
sharply, little pools of shadow emphasizing the hollowness of his sunken
cheeks. Above the waist he was stripped to his undershirt; a rude
bandage under the shirt was stained the reddish brown of dried blood. A
quick pity drove the distrust out of the eyes of the man who saw and who
remembered.

"You poor little devil!" he sa