there isn't any gallows tree in walking distance."

"For God's sake, Ward!" Buck's voice was hoarse. The plea came out of
its own accord. He held his hands before him, however, and he made no
attempt to get out of the chair. He knew Ward could shoot all right
with his left hand, you see. He had watched him practice on tin cans,
long ago when the two were friends.

"You know what I told you," Ward reminded him grimly and took up the
knife with a deadly air that made the other suck in his breath. "Hold
still! I'm liable to cut your throat if I make a mislick."

Really, it was the way he did it that made it terrible. The thing
itself was nothing. He merely drew the back of the blade down
alongside Buck's ear, and permitted the point to scratch through the
skin barely enough to let out a thin trickle of blood. A pin would
have hurt worse. But Buck groaned and believed he had lost an ear. He
breathed in gasps, but did not say a word.

"Go ahead; talk all you want to, Buck," Ward invited, and wiped the
knife-blade on Buck's shoulder before he returned the weapon to its
sheath in his inside coat pocket.

Buck flinched from the touch and set his teeth. Ward tied his hands
before him and told him to get up and go out to his horse. Buck obeyed
with abject submissiveness, and Ward's lip curled again as he walked
behind him to the door. He had not the slightest twinge of pity for
the man. He was gloatingly glad that he could make him suffer, and he
inwardly cursed his own humanity for being so merciful. He ought to
have cut Buck's ear off slick and clean instead of making a bluff at
it, he told himself disgustedly. Buck deserved it and more.

He helped Buck into the saddle, took the short rope in his hands, and
hobbled Buck's feet under the horse, grasped the bridle-reins, and
mounted Rattler. Without a word he set off up the rough trail toward
Hardup, leading Buck's horse behind him.

CHAPTER XVII

"SO-LONG, BUCK!"

"Before you go, Buck, I want to tell you that you needn't jolly
yourself into thinking your death will be avenged. It won't. You
noticed what I wrote; and there isn't a scrap of my writing anywhere in
the country to catch me up--" Ward's thoughts went to Billy Louise,
who had some very good samples, and he stopped suddenly. He was trying
not to think of Billy Louise, to-day. "Also, when somebody happens to
ride this way and sees you, I won't be anywhere around."

"This is the t