clenched.

Morse leaned forward and caught hold of it. "I'll take this," he said.
The brown fingers relaxed. "Skirt round the edge of the rock there.
Lie face down in that hollow. Got a six-shooter."

He had. Morse took it from him.

"If you move or speak one word, I'll pump lead into you," the Montanan
cautioned.

The half-breed looked into his chill eyes and decided to take no
chances. He lay down on his face with hands stretched out exactly as
ordered.

His captor returned to the shoulder of rock above the trail. Presently
another head projected itself out of the darkness. A man crept up, and
like the first stopped to take stock of his surroundings.

Against the back of his neck something cold pressed.

"Stick up your hands, Barney," a voice ordered.

The little man let out a yelp. "Mother o' Moses, don't shoot."

"How many more of you?" asked Morse sharply.

"One more."

The man behind the rifle collected his weapons and put Barney