it because your act placed you in worse danger," she told
him.

"Too many for me," Bob disclaimed. "I simply wasn't going to be bluffed
out by that gang!"

"That was it," said Amy wisely. "I know you better than you do yourself.
You don't suppose," she cried, as a new thought alarmed her, "that
Oldham has told the prosecuting attorney that your evidence would be
valuable."

Bob shook his head.

"The trial is next week," he pointed out. "In case the prosecution had
intended calling me, I should have been summoned long since. There's
dust; they are coming. You'd better stay here."

She agreed readily to this. After a moment a light wagon drove up. On
the seat perched Welton and Ware. Bob climbed in behind.

They drove rapidly down to the forks, stopped and hitched the team.

"Ware's been telling me the whole situation, Bobby," said Welton. "That
gang's getting pretty desperate! I've heard of this man Oldham around
this country for a long while, but I always understood he was interested
against the Power Company."

"Bluff," said Bob briefly. "He's been in their employ from the first,
but I never thought he'd go in for quite this kind of strong-arm work.
He doesn't look it, do you think?"

"I never laid eyes on him," replied Welton. "He's never been near the
mill, and I never happened to run across him anywhere else."

By this time they had secured the team. Ware led the way to the tree
under which lay the body of the land agent. Welton surveyed the
prostrate figure for some time in silence. Then turned to Bob, a curious
expression on his face.

"It wasn't an accident that I never met him," said he. "He saw to it.
Don't you remember this man, Bobby?"

"I saw him in Los Angeles some years ago."

"Before that--in Michigan--many years ago."

"His face has always seemed familiar to me," said Bob slowly. "I can't
place it--yes--hold on!"

A picture defined itself from the mists of his boyhood memories. It was
of an open field, with a fringe of beech woods in the distance. A single
hickory stood near its centre, and under this a group lounged, smoking
pipes. A man, perched on a cracker box, held a blank book and pencil.
Another stood by a board, a gun in his hand. The smell of black powder
hung in the atmosphere. Little glass balls popped into the air, and were
snuffed out. He saw Oldham distinctly, looking younger and browner, but
with the same cynical mouth, the same cold eyes, the same slanted
eyeglasses.