As he grew weary of confinement his restlessness found vent in a plan of escape. From his boot he worked the tin piece used as a stiffener for the leg. With this as a tool and a piece of a broken bed slat as material he began to shape a wooden pistol. He worked only when he knew he would be alone. The shavings that came in thin slivers from the pine he hid in the mattress upon which he slept. When the weapon was finished he rubbed it with lamp black till it took in a measure the colour of steel. It was in the man’s temperament to be patient as an Apache when he found it to his advantage. He waited for his chance and found it when the jailer made his round one evening to see that all was secure. The moonlight was shining through the barred window on the bed in checkered squares of light. Dutch was pacing up and down his cell when the guard appeared. He moved forward to the door. “Gimme a chew, Hank,” he said ingratiatingly. The killer was a sullen and vindictive prisoner. The jailer had tried to placate him, for now that Scot McClintock was getting better it would be only a question of time till Dutch would again be loose on the world. “Sure, Sam.” The jailer dived into his right hip pocket, found a plug of tobacco, and handed it through the grating to his prisoner. Dutch caught the man’s wrist and twisted it down against the iron bar of the lattice. Simultaneously a pistol barrel gleamed through the opening. “Gimme yore six-shooter. . . . Now unlock the door. Let out a squawk an’ I’ll pump lead into you.” The jailer obeyed orders. Dutch hustled him into the cell, then tied and gagged him. He took the keys, went downstairs, unlocked the outer door, and walked into the night a free man. He stood for a moment at the door, hesitating. Which way should he go? The first thing was to get a horse at some stable. That would be easy enough. All he had to do was to go in and ask for it. But should he go back to Piodie, try Virginia City, or cut across the Sierras to California and say good-bye to Nevada? Before he had made up his mind which road to take his thoughts were deflected into another channel. A young woman passed on the other side of the street. He recognized her immediately. The light, resilient step, the gallant poise of the slender body identified their owner as Victoria Lowell. He was sure of it even before the moonlight fell full upon her profile. His eyes lit with a cunning tigerish malice. Softly he padded down the street after her. There was in his mind no clear idea of what he meant to do. But he was a born bully. She was alone. He could torment her to his heart’s content. He moved faster, came abreast of her after she had turned into a dark side street. His step kept pace with hers. She looked up to see who her companion was. A gasp of surprise broke from her throat.