e of the narrow street. Then he came
to a quick halt and turned.

"Now," said the Kid, "spit it out. If you want to finish what we begun
at Smith's start in. I'm ready."

"I told you," Thornton answered him, "that I am not looking for trouble.
When I am I know where I can find it." He dropped his voice yet lower so
that by no possibility could any one of the men upon the sidewalk hear
him, and ended, "Jimmie Clayton sent me."

"An'," asked the Kid coolly, "who the hell is Jimmie Clayton?"

"He's a poor little devil who is in need of a friend, if he's got any,"
Thornton returned. "And he said you were the only friend he had here."

"Maybe I am an' maybe I ain't." The sharpness of suspicion was still high
in Bedloe's eyes. "What about him?"

"You knew he was in the pen?"

"I ain't answerin' questions. Go ahead."

"He broke jail a few days ago. He killed his guard and got himself
pretty badly shot up. I guess they're on his trail now. And he's going
to swing for it if they ever get him."

"Where is he?" asked Bedloe sharply with no lessening of the suspicion
and ready watchfulness.

"In the old dugout at the Poison Hole."

"How's it happen you know so much about it?"

"Jimmie was a friend to me once when I needed a friend. He got this far,
he held out to ride to my cabin night before last and left a note. I
took him out some grub last night. It's all I can do for him; I haven't
any way to hide him out. And he's in too bad shape to ride."

"Well, where do I come in?"

Thornton shrugged his shoulders.

"That's your business, yours and Jimmie's. He said that you were a pal
of his, and," he added bluntly, with a keen curious look into the Kid's
steel-blue eyes, "that you never went back on a pal."

Behind him in the street Thornton heard the clatter of horses' hoofs
coming on rapidly. He paid no attention until they were close to him, so
close that from the corner of his eye he caught the flutter of a woman's
skirt. Then he knew who it was before she passed on. One was Pollard
looking white and sick; the other, rosy cheeked and bright eyed, was
Winifred Waverly.

A quick smile drove the sternness from his eyes and he swept off his hat
to her, ignoring the presence of Pollard. But into her expression as she
returned his look for the moment in which she was flashing by, there
came no vague hint of recognition. He turned back to Bedloe, a little
flush of anger in his cheeks. The two men were very near only ba