off again in a
hurry. There had been a good deal of lawlessness of late, for which Soapy
Stone's band of followers was held responsible. Just as plainly as if he
had heard the arguments of Dutch and Kite Bonfils he knew that they were
urging the others to make an example of him. Most of these men were well
up to the average for the milk of human kindness. They were the squarest
citizens in Arizona. But Flandrau knew they would snuff out his life just
the same if they decided it was best. Afterward they might regret it, but
that would not help him.

Darkness came, and the lamps were lit. Again Curly ate and smoked and
chatted a little with his captors. But as he sat there hour after hour,
feeling death creep closer every minute, cold shivers ran up and down his
spine.

They began to question him, at first casually and carelessly, so it seemed
to Curly. But presently he discerned a drift in the talk. They were trying
to find out who had been his partners in the rustling.

"And I reckon Soapy and Bad Bill left you lads at Saguache to hold the
sack," Buck suggested sympathetically.

Curly grew wary. He did not intend to betray his accomplices. "Wrong
guess. Soapy and Bad Bill weren't in this deal," he answered easily.

"We know there were two others in it with you. I guess they were Soapy and
Bad Bill all right."

"There's no law against guessing."

The foreman of the Bar Double M interrupted impatiently, tired of trying
to pump out the information by finesse. "You've got to speak, Flandrau.
You've got to tell us who was engineering this theft. Understand?"

The young rustler looked at the grim frowning face and his heart sank.
"Got to tell you, have I?"

"That's what?"

"Out with it," ordered Buck.

"Oh, I expect I'll keep that under my hat," Curly told them lightly.

They were crowded about him in a half circle, nearly a score of hard
leather-faced plainsmen. Some of them were riders of the Circle C outfit.
Others had ridden over from neighboring ranches. All of them plainly meant
business. They meant to stamp out rustling, and their determination had
been given an edge by the wounding of Luck Cullison, the most popular man
in the county.

"Think again, Curly," advised Sweeney quietly. "The boys ain't trifling
about this thing. They mean to find out who was in the rustling of the Bar
Double M stock."

"Not through me, they won't."

"Through you. And right now."

A dozen times during the evening Curly