d him in the
hollow of his hand, and besides these reefs of menace were yet other
shoals to be navigated.

Squires had been compelled by Rowlett not only to join the "riders" who
were growing in numbers and covert power, but to take such an active
part in their proceedings as would draw down upon his head the bolts of
wrath should the organization ever be brought to an accounting.

There was terrible danger there and Sim recognized it. Sim knew that
when Rowlett had quietly stirred into life the forces from which the
secret body was born he had been building for one purpose--and one
purpose only. To its own membership, the riders might be a body of
vigilantes with divers intentions, but to Bas they were never anything
but a mob which should some day lynch Parish Thornton--and then be
themselves destroyed like the bee that dies when it stings. Through
Squires as the unwilling instrument Rowlett was possessing himself of
such evidence as would undo the leaders when the organization had served
that one purpose.

Yet Sim dared reveal none of these secrets. The active personality who
was the head and front of the riders was Sam Opdyke's friend Rick
Joyce--and Rick Joyce was the man to whom Bas could whisper the facts
that had first given him power over Sim.

For Sim had shot to death Rick's nephew, and though he had done it while
drunk and half responsible; though he had been incited to the deed by
Bas himself, no man save the two of them knew that, and so far the
murderer had never been discovered.

It seemed to Sim that any way he turned his face he encountered a
cul-de-sac of mortal danger--and it left him in a perplexity that
fretted him and edged his nerves to rawness.

Part of Christmas day was spent by the henchman in the cabin where he
had been accustomed to holding his secret councils with his master, Bas
Rowlett, and his venom for the man who had used him as a shameless pawn
was eclipsing his hatred for Parish Thornton, the intended victim whom
he was paid to shadow and spy upon. For Dorothy he had come to
acknowledge a dumb worship, and this sentiment was not the adoration of
a lover but that dog-like affection which reacts to kindness where there
has been no other kindness in life.

It was not in keeping with such a character that he should attempt any
candid repudiation of his long-worn yoke, or declare any spirit of
conversion, but in him was a ferment of panic.

"I'm growin' right restive, Bas," whin