from the fire. The Texan was to keep the first watch.

It was well along toward morning when the snapping of a bush awakened
Ridley. He sat upright and reached quickly for the revolver by his side.

"Don't you," called a voice sharply from the brush.

Two men, masked with slitted handkerchiefs, broke through the shin-oak
just as Arthur whipped up his gun. The hammer fell once--twice, but no
explosion followed. With two forty-fives covering him, Ridley, white to
the lips, dropped his harmless weapon.

Moore came to life with sleepy eyes, but he was taken at a disadvantage,
and with a smothered oath handed over his revolver.

"Wha-what do you want?" asked Ridley, his teeth chattering.

The shorter of the two outlaws, a stocky man with deep chest and
extraordinarily broad shoulders, growled an answer.

"We want that money of Clint Wadley's you're packin'."

The camp-fire had died to ashes, and the early-morning air was chill.
Arthur felt himself trembling so that his hands shook. A prickling of
the skin went goose-quilling down his back. In the dim light those
masked figures behind the businesslike guns were sinister with the
threat of mystery and menace.

"I--haven't any money," he quavered.

"You'd better have it, young fellow, me lad!" jeered the tall bandit.
"We're here strictly for business. Dig up."

"I don't reckon he's carryin' any money for Clint," Moore argued mildly.
"Don't look reasonable that an old-timer like Clint, who knocked the
bark off'n this country when I was still a kid, would send a tenderfoot
to pack gold 'cross country for him."

The tall man swung his revolver on Moore. "'Nuff from you," he ordered
grimly.

The heavy-set outlaw did not say a word. He moved forward and pressed
the cold rim of his forty-five against the forehead of the messenger.
The fluttering heart of the young man beat hard against his ribs. His
voice stuck in his throat, but he managed to gasp a surrender.

"It's in my belt. For God's sake, don't shoot."

"Gimme yore belt."

The boy unbuckled the ribbon of hogskin beneath his shirt and passed it
to the man behind the gun. The outlaw noticed that his fingers were cold
and clammy.

"Stand back to back," commanded the heavy man.

Deftly he swung a rope over the heads of his captives, jerked it tight,
wound it about their bodies, knotted it here and there, and finished
with a triple knot where their heels came together.

"That'll hold 'em hitched a few minutes