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the fallen form of Buck Daniels.

      "Stand back from him, Bart!" he commanded.

      The wolf slipped off a pace, whining with horrible eagerness, for he had tasted blood. Far away a shout came from Sam Daniels. Dan lowered his gun.

      "Stand up," he ordered.

      The big fellow picked himself up and stood against the wall with the blood streaming down his right arm. Still he said nothing and his keen eyes darted from Calder to Whistling Dan.

      "Give me a strip of that old shirt over there, will you, Tex?" said Dan, "an' keep him covered while I tie up his arm."

      Before Calder could move, old Daniels appeared at the door, a heavy Colt in his hand. For a moment he stood dumbfounded, but then, with a cry, jerked up his gun—a quick movement, but a fraction of a second too slow, for the hand of Dan darted out and his knuckles struck the wrist of the old cattleman. The Colt rattled on the floor. He lunged after his weapon, but the voice of Buck stopped him short.

      "The game's up, Dad," he growled, "that older feller is Tex Calder."

      The name, like a blow in the face, straightened old Daniels and left him white and blinking. Whistling Dan turned his back on the father and deftly bound up the lacerated arm of Buck.

      "In the name o' God, Buck," moaned Sam, "what you been tryin' to do in here?"

      "What you'd do if you had the guts for it. That's Tex Calder an' this is Dan Barry. They're on the trail of big Jim. I wanted to put 'em off that trail."

      "Look here," said Calder, "how'd you know us?"

      "I've said my little say," said Buck sullenly, "an' you'll get no more out of me between here an' any hell you can take me to."

      "He knew us when his father talked about Satan an' Black Bart," said Dan to Tex. "Maybe he's one of Silent's."

      "Buck, for God's sake tell 'em you know nothin' of Silent," cried old Daniels. "Boy, boy, it's hangin' for you if they get you to Elkhead an' charge you with that!"

      "Dad, you're a fool," said Buck. "I ain't goin' down on my knees to 'em. Not me."

      Calder, still keeping Buck covered with his gun, drew Dan a little to one side.

      "What can we do with this fellow, Dan?" he said. "Shall we give up the trail and take him over to Elkhead?"

      "An' break the heart of the ol' man?"

      "Buck is one of the gang, that's certain."

      "Get Silent an' there won't be no gang left."

      "But we caught this in red blood—"

      "He ain't very old, Tex. Maybe he could change. I think he ain't been playin' Silent's game any too long."

      "We can't let him go. It isn't in reason to do that."

      "I ain't thinkin' of reason. I'm thinkin' of old Sam an' his wife."

      "And if we turn him loose?"

      "He'll be your man till he dies."

      Calder scowled.

      "The whole range is filled with these silent partners of the outlaws —but maybe you're right, Dan. Look at them now!"

      The father was standing close to his son and pouring out a torrent of appeal—evidently begging him in a low voice to disavow any knowledge of Silent and his crew, but Buck shook his head sullenly. He had given up hope. Calder approached them.

      "Buck," he said, "I suppose you know that you could be hung for what you've tried to do tonight. If the law wouldn't hang you a lynching party would. No jail would be strong enough to keep them away from you."

      Buck was silent, dogged.

      "But suppose we were to let you go scot free?"

      Buck started. A great flush covered his face.

      "I'm taking the advice of Dan Barry in doing this," said Calder. "Barry thinks you could go straight. Tell me man to man, if I give you the chance will you break loose from Silent and his gang?"

      A moment before, Buck had been steeled for the worst, but this sudden change loosened all the bonds of his pride. He stammered and choked. Calder turned abruptly away.

      "Dan," he said, "here's the dawn, and it's time for us to hit the trail."

      They rolled their blankets hastily and broke away from the gratitude which poured like water from the heart of old Sam. They were in their saddles when Buck came beside Dan. His pride, his shame, and his gratitude broke his voice.

      "I ain't much on words," he said, "but it's you I'm thankin'!"

      His hand reached up hesitatingly, and Dan caught it in a firm grip.

      "Why," he said gently, "even Satan here stumbles now an' then, but that ain't no reason I should get rid of him. Good luck—partner!"

      He shook the reins and the stallion leaped off after Calder's trotting pony. Buck Daniels stood motionless looking after them, and his eyes were very dim.

      For an hour Dan and Tex were on the road before the sun looked over the hills. Calder halted his horse to watch.

      "Dan," he said at last, "I used to think there were only two ways of handling men—one with the velvet touch and one with the touch of steel. Mine has been the way of steel, but I begin to see there's a third possibility —the touch of the panther's paw—the velvet with the steel claws hid beneath. That's your way, and I wonder if it isn't the best. I think Buck Daniels would be glad to die for you!"

      He turned directly to Dan.

      "But all this is aside from the point, which is that the whole country is full of these silent partners of the outlaws. The law plays a lone hand in the mountain-desert."

      "You've played the lone hand and won twenty times," said Dan.

      "Ay, but the twenty-first time I may fail. The difference between success and failure in this country is just the length of time it takes to pull a trigger—and Silent is fast with a gun. He's the root of the outlaw power. We may kill a hundred men, but till he's gone we've only mowed the weeds, not pulled them. But what's the use of talking? One second will tell the tale when I stand face to face with Jim Silent and we go for our six-guns. And somewhere between that rising sun and those mountains I'll find Jim Silent and the end of things for one of us."

      He started his cattle-pony into a sudden gallop, and they drove on into the bright morning.

      18. CAIN

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      Hardly a score of miles away, Jim Silent and his six companions topped a hill. He raised his hand and the others drew rein beside him. Kate Cumberland shifted her weight a little to one side of the saddle to rest and looked down from the crest on the sweep of country below. A mile away the railroad made a streak of silver light across the brown range and directly before them stood the squat station-house with red-tiled roof. Just before the house, a slightly broader streak of that gleaming light showed the position of the siding rails. She turned her head towards the outlaws. They were listening to the final directions of their chief, and the darkly intent faces told their own story. She knew, from what she had gathered of their casual hints, that this was to be the scene of the train hold-up.

      It seemed impossible that this little group of men could hold the great fabric of a train with all its scores of passengers at their mercy. In spite of herself, half her heart wished them success. There was Terry Jordan forgetful of the wound in his arm; Shorty Rhinehart, his saturnine face longer and more calamitous than ever; Hal Purvis, grinning and nodding his head; Bill Kilduff with his heavy jaw set like a bull dog's; Lee Haines, with a lock of tawny hair blowing over his forehead, smiling faintly as he listened to Silent as if he heard a girl tell a story of love; and finally Jim Silent himself, huge, solemn, confident. She began to feel that

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