The cattleman put his unwounded hand into his trousers pocket and
lounged forward, thrusting his smiling face against the cold rim of the
blue barrel.

"I reckon you'll scatter proper what few brains I've got."

With a curse, the boy flung the weapon down on the bed. He could not
possibly kill a man so willing as this. To draw guns with him, and
chance the issue, would have suited young Sanderson exactly. But this
way would be no less than murder.

"You devil!" he cried, with a boyish sob.

Weaver picked up the revolver, and examined it. "Mighty careless of Ned
to leave it lying around this way," he commented absently, as if unaware
of the other's rage. "You never can tell when a gun is going to get into
the wrong hands."

"What are you letting me go for? You've got a reason. What is it?" Phil
demanded.

Weaver looked at him through narrowed, daredevil eyes. "The ransom price
has been paid," he explained.

"Paid! Who paid it?"

"Miss Phyllis Sanderson."

"Phyllis?" repeated the boy incredulously. "But she had no money."