"He's give himself away," triumphed the one edged Tom. "I guess that
clinches it. He's riding Maloney's hawss. He's wounded; so's the man
we want. He answers the description-- gray eyes, tall, slim, muscular.
Same gun-- automatic Colt. Tell you there's nothin' to it, Duffield."

"If you're not Kinney, how come you with this hawss? He stole it from
a barn in Fort Lincoln last night. That's known," said the leader,
Duffield.

The imperilled man thought of the girl bing toward the border with her
brother and the remembrance padlocked his tongue.

"Take me to the proper authorities and I'll answer questions. But,
I'll not talk here. What's the use? You don't believe a word I say."

"You spoke the truth that time," said one.

"If you ever want to do any explaining now's the hour," added another.

"I'll do mine later, gentlemen."

They looked at each other and one of them spoke.

"It will be too late to explain then."

"Too late?"

Some inkling of the man's hideous meaning seared him and ran like an
ice-blast through him.