ore. At sixty he would fire if he saw no evidence of
weakening in Fremont. And he did not believe that Fremont would
weaken. He was coming to understand that Fremont was obsessed with the
idea that he was protecting Nestor by the course he was taking. This
being true, he would remain loyal to the very end.

Thirty-nine. The leader seemed about to lift his hand as a signal for
the squad to level their guns, when a shout came from up the slope, and
a figure every whit as ragged and disreputable in appearance as the men
gathered about the prisoner swung into sight, leaping over ledges and
lifting voice and hand in warning as he advanced.

The men, now swinging their guns into position, paused and held them
motionless while they gazed at the intruder. The leader shifted about
uneasily and muttered something under his breath. Released, for the
moment at least, from the strain he had been under, Jimmie dropped back
in his hiding place, his weapon clattering to the ground. It was not
the fact of his own peril that had wrought him up to the point of
breaking, but the thought that it might be necessary for him to take a
human life.

It seemed to the boy that there was displeasure half hidden in the
leader's manner as he conferred with the messenger. He did not appear
to approve of the interruption.

"Why didn't you tell me that you had made a mistake and taken the wrong
boy?" he demanded, then turning to the men. "Why didn't you tell me
this was not Nestor?"

The men made no reply except that one of them grumbled that they had
captured the boy whose description they had been given, and the leader
turned to Fremont.

"Why didn't you declare your identity?" he demanded.

"I had no reason to believe that anything I could say would be
credited," was the cool reply. "You saw fit to disbelieve what I said
about the papers."

"What is your name?" the other asked, laying a hand on the boy's arm.

Fremont remained silent, but the messenger stepped forward and declared
that he knew the fellow well by sight, and that his name was George
Fremont.

"Is that true?" demanded the renegade, and Fremont nodded.

Somehow it seemed to Jimmie that the renegade expected the answer that
he had received, and that he way angry with the messenger for bringing
out the boy's name. At any rate he glanced furtively at his men as the
name was mentioned.

"And so," he said, then, "you are the boy wanted in New York for
attempted murd