iskly
away. He too was headed for the mill.

The operator's jaw worked spasmodically for a moment.

"Hen's feathers and skunk oil! If he ain't a spy, I'll eat him. Oh,
Lord! Old Firmstone and Jack Haskins's gang lined up against the Blue
Goose crowd! Jake, my boy, listen to me. You can get another job if you
lose this; but to-morrow you are going to see the sight of your life."

CHAPTER XXII

_Good Intentions_

Returning from the station, Hartwell drove rapidly until he came to the
foot of the mountain that rose above the nearly level mesa. Even then he
tried to urge his jaded team into a pace in some consonance with his
anxiety; but the steep grades and the rarefied air appealed more
strongly to the exhausted animals than did the stinging lash he wielded.
As, utterly blown, they came to a rest at the top of a steep grade,
Hartwell became aware of the presence of three men who rose leisurely as
the team halted. Two of them stood close by the horses' heads, the third
paused beside the wagon.

"Howdy!" he saluted, with a grin.

"What do you want?" A hold-up was the only thing that occurred to
Hartwell.

"Just a little sociable talk. You ain't in no hurry?" The grin
broadened.

"I am." Hartwell reached for his whip.

"None of that!" The grin died away. The two men each laid a firm hand on
the bridles.

"Will you tell me what this means?" There was not a quaver in Hartwell's
voice, no trace of fear in his eyes.

"By-and-by. You just wait. You got a gun?"

"No; I haven't."

"I don't like to dispute a gentleman; but it's better to be safe. Just
put up your hands."

Hartwell complied with the request. The man passed his hands rapidly
over Hartwell's body, then turned away.

"All right," he said, then seated himself and began filling his pipe.

"How long am I expected to wait?" Hartwell's tone was sarcastic.

"Sorry I can't tell you. It just depends. I'll let you know when."

He relapsed into silence that Hartwell could not break with all his
impatient questions or his open threats. The men left the horses' heads
and seated themselves in the road. It occurred to Hartwell to make a
dash for liberty, but there was a cartridge-belt on each man and
holsters with ready guns.

In the deep canon the twilight was giving way to darkness that was only
held in check by the strip of open sky above and by a band of yellow
light that burned with lambent tongues on the waving foliage which
overhung the east