ice.

"That you, Curly? For God's sake, let me in."

Before he had got the words out the door was open. Slats came in and shut
it behind him. He looked at Mac, the forty-five shaking in the boy's hand,
and he looked at Flandrau.

"They're after you," he said, breathing fast as if he had been running.

"Who?" fired Curly back at him.

"The Bar Double M boys. They just reached town."

"Put up that gun, Mac, and move into your clothes immediate," ordered
Curly. Then to Davis: "Go on. Unload the rest. What do they know?"

"They inquired for you and your friend here down at the Legal Tender. The
other members of your party they could only guess at."

"Have we got a chance to make our getaway?" Mac asked.

Davis nodded. "Slide out through the kitchen, cut into the alley, and
across lots to the corral. We'll lock the door and I'll hold them here
long as I can."

"Good boy, Slats. If there's a necktie party you'll get the first bid,"
Curly grinned.

Slats looked at him, cold and steady. Plainer than words he was telling
his former friend that he would not joke with a horse thief. For the sake
of old times he would save him if he could, but he would call any bluffs
about the whole thing being a lark.

Curly's eyes fell away. It came to him for the first time that he was no
longer an honest man. Up till this escapade he had been only wild, but now
he had crossed the line that separates decent folks from outlaws. He had
been excited with liquor when he joined in this fool enterprise, but that
made no difference now. He was a rustler, a horse thief. If he lived a
hundred years he could never get away from the disgrace of it.

Not another word was said while they hurried into their clothes. But as
Curly passed out of the door he called back huskily. "Won't forget what
you done for us, Slats."

Again their eyes met. Davis did not speak, but the chill look on his face
told Flandrau that he had lost a friend.

The two young men ran down the back stairs, passed through the kitchen
where a Chinese cook was getting breakfast, and out into the bright
sunlight. Before they cut across to the corral their eyes searched for
enemies. Nobody was in sight except the negro janitor of a saloon busy
putting empty bottles into a barrel.

"Won't do to be in any hurry. The play is we're gentlemen of leisure, just
out for an amble to get the mo'ning air," Curly cautioned.

While they fed, watered, and saddled they swapped gossip with