ace turned whitely to the sky he never would see again. It came
over him strangely enough how Mac used to break into a little chuckling
laugh when he was amused. He had quit laughing now for good and all. A
lump came into the boy's throat and he had to work it down before he
spoke.

"There's a picture in his pocket, and some letters I reckon. Send them to
Miss Myra Anderson, Tombstone, care of one of the restaurants. I don't
know which one."

"Send nothin'," sneered Dutch, and coupled it with a remark no decent man
makes of a woman on a guess.

Because of poor Mac lying there with the little hole in his temple Curry
boiled over. With a jerk his right arm was free. It shot out like a
pile-driver, all his weight behind the blow. Dutch went down as if a
charging bull had flung him.

Almost simultaneously Curly hit the sand hard. Before he could stir three
men were straddled over his anatomy. One of them ground his head into the
dust.

"You would, eh? We'll see about that. Jake, bring yore rope."

They tied the hands of the boy, hauled him to his feet, and set him
astride a horse. In the distance a windmill of the Circle C ranch was
shining in the morning sun. Toward the group of buildings clustered around
this two of his captors started with Flandrau. A third was already
galloping toward the ranch house to telephone for a doctor.

As they rode along a fenced lane which led to the house a girl came flying
down the steps. She swung herself to the saddle just vacated by the
messenger and pulled the horse round for a start. At sight of those coming
toward her she called out quickly.

"How is dad?" The quiver of fear broke in her voice.

"Don' know yet, Miss Kate," answered one of the men. "He's right peart
though. Says for to tell you not to worry. Don't you, either. We've got
here the mangy son of a gun that did it."

Before he had finished she was off like an arrow shot from a bow, but not
until her eyes had fallen on the youth sitting bareheaded and bloody
between the guns of his guard. Curly noticed that she had given a shudder,
as one might at sight of a mangled mad dog which had just bit a dear
friend. Long after the pounding of her pony's hoofs had died away the
prisoner could see the startled eyes of fear and horror that had rested on
him. As Curly kicked his foot out of the stirrup to dismount a light
spring wagon rolled past him. In its bed were a mattress and pillows. The
driver whipped up the horse and