your horse and clear out,” he said.     

       Roberts dropped his halter and straightened up. It was a bolder action than any he had heretofore given. Perhaps the mask was off now; he was wholly sure of what he had only feared; subterfuge and blindness were in vain; and now he could be a man. Some change worked in his face—a blanching, a setting.     

       “No, I won't go without the girl,” he said.     

       “But you can't take her!”      

       Joan vibrated to a sudden start. So this was what was going to happen. Her heart almost stood still. Breathless and quivering, she watched these two men, about whom now all was strangely magnified.     

       “Reckon I'll go along with you, then,” replied Roberts.     

       “Your company's not wanted.”      

       “Wal, I'll go anyway.”      

       This was only play at words, Joan thought. She divined in Roberts a cold and grim acceptance of something he had expected. And the voice of Kells—what did that convey? Still the man seemed slow, easy, kind, amiable.     

       “Haven't you got any sense, Roberts?” he asked.     

       Roberts made no reply to that.     

       “Go on home. Say nothing or anything—whatever you like,” continued Kells. “You did me a favor once over in California. I like to remember favors. Use your head now. Hit the trail.”      

       “Not without her. I'll fight first,” declared Roberts, and his hands began to twitch and jerk.     

       Joan did not miss the wonderful intentness of the pale-gray eyes that watched Roberts—his face, his glance, his hands.     

       “What good will it do to fight?” asked Kells. He laughed coolly. “That won't help her... You ought to know what you'll get.”      

       “Kells—I'll die before I leave that girl in your clutches,” flashed Roberts. “An' I ain't a-goin' to stand here an' argue with you. Let her come—or—”      

       “You don't strike me as a fool,” interrupted Kells. His voice was suave, smooth, 

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