derable pain, although he exhibited no outward sign. But his
heart was hot within him, especially when he looked upon Curly's
sneering and jubilant face. If he could only be free for a few minutes
he would attack the entire bunch, and revel in the fight. But to be
bound and helpless was most galling.

"How d'ye like it?" Curly asked, coming up close to Reynolds. "Having
a good time, eh? This is our picnic to-night."

"So I see," and the captive's lips curled in a sarcastic smile. "But
just let me free for about five minutes, and then you'll see whose
picnic it is."

"Not on yer life. We've got ye sure now, an' intend to keep ye that
way until we're through with ye. What would yer little girlie say if
she could see ye now?"

"To whom do you refer?"

"Oh, I guess you know, all right," and Curly grinned. "She's pretty,
isn't she? But she has no use for me. She prefers a white-livered
sucker like you."

"Who was the big white-livered sucker during the war?" Reynolds
retorted. "I didn't hide away in the hills like you did, Curly. You
are a coward, and you know it."

"Who killed his pardner, though?" Curly snarled, for the prisoner's
words stung him to the quick.

"What do you mean?" Reynolds asked in surprise.

"Where is Frontier Samson? What happened to the old man?"

Reynolds' eyes grew big with amazement as the meaning of Curly's words
dawned upon his mind. So these men believed that he had killed the
prospector! His face turned pale at the thought. What could he say in
self-defense? Curly noted his embarrassment as well as the change of
countenance, and he was greatly elated.

"Ye can't deny it," he charged. "Look, boys," he shouted. "See the
white streak about his gills."

"Where ish Samson?" a blear-eyed man demanded, thrusting his
whiskey-reeking mouth up close to Reynolds' face. "Where ish my old
friend?"

Reynolds made no reply, although it was with difficulty that he
restrained himself. To try to explain to such men would be useless, he
was well aware. Others now surrounded him, who asked, not only about
Samson, but about Jim Weston's daughter. They made the night hideous
with their oaths and vile questions, until they seemed to Reynolds more
like imps of the infernal regions let loose than human beings. He saw
that they were becoming more and more reckless as they talked, shouted,
and quarrelled with one another, and he expected at any minute to see
them turn upon him and