wasn't in at the finish!" declared Budd.

Blicky gazed darkly at him, but made no comment.

"I tell you Blick, I can't git this all right in my head," said Smith.

"Say, ask Jim again. Mebbe, now the job's done, he can talk," suggested
Blicky.

Jim Cleve heard and appeared ready for that question.

"I don't know much more than I told you. But I can guess. Kells had this
big shipment of gold spotted. He must have sent us in the stage for some
reason. He said he'd tell me what to expect and do. But he didn't come
back. Sure he knew you'd do the job. And just as sure he expected to be
on hand. He'll turn up soon."

This ruse of Jim's did not sound in the least logical or plausible to
Joan, but it was readily accepted by the bandits. Apparently what they
knew of Kells's movements and plans since the break-up at Alder Creek
fitted well with Cleve's suggestions.

"Come on!" boomed Gulden, from the fore. "Do you want to rot here?"

Then without so much as a backward glance at the ruin they left behind
the bandits fell into line. Jesse Smith led straight off the road into
a shallow brook and evidently meant to keep in it. Gulden followed; next
came Beady Jones; then the three bandits with the pack-horse and the
other horses; Cleve and Joan, close together, filed in here; and last
came Budd and Blicky. It was rough, slippery traveling and the riders
spread out. Cleve, however, rode beside Joan. Once, at an opportune
moment, he leaned toward her.

"We'd better run for it at the first chance," he said, somberly.

"No!... GULDEN!" Joan had to moisten her lips to speak the monster's
name.

"He'll never think of you while he has all that gold."

Joan's intelligence grasped this, but her morbid dread, terribly
augmented now, amounted almost to a spell. Still, despite the darkness
of her mind, she had a flash of inspiration and of spirit.

"Kells is my only hope!... If he doesn't join us soon--then we'll
run!... And if we can't escape that"--Joan made a sickening gesture
toward the fore--"you must kill me before--before--"

Her voice trailed off, failing.

"I will!" he promised through locked teeth.

And then they rode on, with dark, faces bent over the muddy water and
treacherous stones.

When Jesse Smith led out of that brook it was to ride upon bare rock. He
was not leaving any trail. Horses and riders were of no consideration.
And he was a genius for picking hard ground and covering it. He never
slackened his