"Interesting, if true," O'Connor retorted easily.
"You can bank on its truth, my friend."
"And you're actually going to kill me in cold blood."
The black eyes narrowed. "Just as I would a dog," said the outlaw, with savage emphasis.
"I don't believe it. I've done you no harm."
MacQueen glanced at him contemptuously. The famous Bucky O'Connor looked about as competent as a boy in the pimply age.
"I thought you had better sense. Do you think I would have brought you to Dead Man's Cache if I had intended you to go away alive? I'm afraid, Lieutenant Bucky O'Connor, that you're a much overrated man. Your reputation sure would have blown up, if you had lived. You ought to thank me for preserving it."
"Preserving it--how?"
"By bumping you off before you've lost it."
"Sho! You wouldn't do that," the ranger murmured ineffectively.
"We'll see. Jeff, I put him in your charge. Search him, and take him to Hank's cabin. I hold you responsible for him. Bring me any papers you find on him. When I find time, I'll drop around and see that you're keeping him safe."
Bucky was searched, and his weapons and papers removed. After being handcuffed, he was chained to a heavy staple, which had been driven into one of the log walls. He was left alone, and the door was locked; but he could hear Jeff moving about outside.
With the closing of the door the vacuous look slipped from his face like a mask. The loose-lipped, lost-dog expression was gone. He looked once more alert, competent, fit for the emergency. It had been his cue to let his adversary underestimate him. During the long night ride he had had chances to escape, had he desired to do so. But this had been the last thing he wanted.
The outlaws had chosen to take him to their fastness in the hills. He would back himself to use the knowledge they were thrusting upon him, to bring about their undoing. Only one factor in the case had come upon him as a surprise. He had not reckoned that they would have a personal grudge against him. And this was a factor that might upset all his calculations.
It meant that he was playing against time, with the chances of the game all against him. He had forty-eight hours in which to escape--and he was handcuffed, chained, locked up, and guarded. Truly, the outlook was not radiant.
CHAPTER V
A PHOTOGRAPH
On the third morning Beauchamp Lee returned to Mesa--unshaven, dusty, and fagged with hard riding. He brought with him a handbill which he had picked up in the street. Melissy hung over him and ministered to his needs. While he was eating breakfast he talked.
"No luck yet, honey. He's hiding in some pocket of the hills, I reckon; and likely there he'll stay till the hunt is past. They don't make them any slicker than Dunc, dad gum his ugly hide!"
"What is that paper?" his daughter asked.
Lee curbed a disposition toward bad language, as he viewed it with disgust. "This here is bulletin number one, girl. It's the cheekiest, most impudent thing I ever saw. MacQueen serves notice to all the people of this county to keep out of this fight. Also, he mentions me and Jack Flatray by name--warning us that, if we sit in the game, hell will be popping for us."
"What will you do?"
"Do? I'll get back to my boys fast as horseflesh will get me there, once I've had a talk with that beef buyer from Kansas City I made an appointment to see before this thing broke loose. You don't allow I'm going to let any rustler dictate to me what I'll do and what I won't--do you?"
"Where do you reckon he had this printed?" she asked.
"I don't reckon, I know. Late last night a masked man woke up Jim Snell. You know, he sleeps in a room at the back of the printing office. Well, this fellow made him dress, set up this bill, and run off five hundred copies while he stood over him. I'll swan I never heard of such cheek!"
Melissy told what she had to tell--after which her father shaved, took a bath, and went out to meet the buyer from Kansas City. His business kept him until noon. After dinner Melissy's saddle horse was brought around, and she joined her father to ride back with him for a few miles.
About three o'clock she kissed him good-bye, and turned homeward. After she had passed the point where the Silver Creek trail ran into the road she heard the sound of a galloping horse behind. A rider was coming along the trail toward town. He gained on her rapidly, and presently a voice hailed her gayly:
"The top o' the mornin' to you, Miss 'Lissie."
She drew up to wait for him. "My name is still Miss Lee," she told him mildly, by way of correction.
"I'm glad it is, but we can change it in three minutes at any time, my dear," he laughed.
She had been prepared to be more friendly toward him, but at this she froze again.
"Did you leave Mrs. O'Connor and the children well?" she asked pointedly, looking directly at him.
His smile vanished, and he stared at her in a very strange fashion. She had taken the wind completely out of his sails. It had not occurred to him that O'Connor might be a married man. Nor did he know but that it might be a trick to catch him. He did the only thing he could do--made answer in an ironic fashion, which might mean anything or nothing.
"Very well, thank you."
She saw at once that the topic did not allure him, and pushed home her advantage. "You must miss Mrs. O'Connor when you are away on duty."
"Must I?"
"And the children, too. By the way, what are their names?"
"You're getting up a right smart interest in my family, all of a sudden," he countered.
"One can't talk about the weather all the time."
He boldly decided to slay the illusion of domesticity. "If you want to know, I have neither wife nor children."
"But I've heard about them all," she retorted.
"You have heard of Mrs. O'Connor, no doubt; but she happens to be the wife of a cousin of mine."
The look which she flashed at him held more than doubt.
"You don't believe me?" he continued. "I give you my word that I'm not married."
They had left the road, and were following a short cut which wound down toward Tonti, in and out among the great boulders. The town, dwarfed to microscopic size by distance, looked, in the glare of the sunlight, as if it were made of white chalk. Along the narrow trail they went singly, Melissy leading the way.
She made no answer, but at the first opportunity he forced his horse to a level with hers.
"Well--you heard what I said," he challenged.
"The subject is of no importance to me," she said.
"It's important to me. I'm not going to have you doing me an injustice. I tell you I'm not married. You've got to believe me."
Her mind was again alive with suspicions. Jack had told her Bucky O'Connor was married, and he must have known what he was talking about.
"I don't know whether you are married or not. I am of the opinion that Lieutenant O'Connor has a wife and three children. More than once I have been told so," she answered.
"You seem to know a heap about the gentleman."
"I know what I know."
"More than I do, perhaps," he suggested.
Her eyes dilated. He could see suspicion take hold of her.
"Perhaps," she answered quietly.
"Does