y the
rope from the other's ankles. He caught at the steel-linked wrists and
helped the man to his feet. "Come on," he said. "Slip around to the
back of the shed--talk later."

P. Walton pushed the door open, and the man he called the Butcher,
lurching a little unsteadily from cramped ankles, passed out. P.
Walton carefully closed the door, coolly replaced the bar in position,
and joined the other.

"Now, run for it!" he said--and led the way straight out from the town.

For two hundred yards, perhaps a little more, they raced--and then P.
Walton stumbled and went down.

"I'm--I'm not very well to-night," he gasped. "This will do--it's far
enough."

The Butcher, halted, gazed at the prostrate form.

"Say, cull, what's yer name?" he demanded. "I owe you something for
this, an' don't you forget it."

P. Walton made no answer. His head was swimming, lights were dancing
before his eyes, and there was a premonitory weakness upon him whose
issue he knew too well--unless he could fight it off.

The Butcher bent down until his face was within an inch of P. Walton's.

"So help me!" he informed the universe in unbounded amazement. "It's
de Dook!"

"Sit down there opposite me, and hold out your hands," directed P.
Walton, with an effort. "We haven't got any time to waste."

The Butcher, heavy with wonderment, obeyed mechanically--and P. Walton
drew a rat-tail file from his pocket.

"I saw you in the express car this afternoon, and I went to the
roundhouse for this when I left the office," P. Walton said, as he set
to work on the steel links. "But I was feeling kind of down and out,
and was going to leave you till to-morrow night--only I heard they were
going to lynch you at midnight."

"Lynch me!" growled the Butcher. "What fer? They don't lynch a fellow
'cause he's nipped in a hold-up--we didn't kill no one."

"Some of the cowboys are looking for amusement," said P. Walton
monotonously. "They've distributed red-eye among the Polacks, for the
purpose, I imagine, of putting the blame--on the Polacks."

"I get you!" snarled the Butcher, with an oath. "It's de Bar K
Ranch--we took their payroll away from 'em two weeks ago. Lynchin',
eh? Well, some of 'em 'll dance on air fer this themselves, blast 'em!
Dook, yer white--an' you always was. I thought me luck was out fer
keeps to-day when Spud--you saw Spud, didn't you?"

"Yes," said P. Walton, filing steadily.

"Spud always had a soft spot in his