Val put his hands in his pockets and tipped back his chair. “I ain’t sheriff of Hualpai County. My jurisdiction don’t extend here,” he said calmly. “I’m an unarmed man,” pleaded Cavellado. “Come to think of it, so am I.” “I reckon I’m holding all the aces, Signor Cavellado,” explained the ranger affably. “Or do you prefer in private life to be addressed as Hardman—or, say, Anderson?” The showman moistened his lips and offered his tormentor a blanched face. “Anderson—a good plain name. I wonder, now, why you changed it?” Bucky’s innocent eyes questioned him blandly as he drew from his pocket a little box and tossed it on the table. “Open that box for me, Mr. Anderson. Who knows? It might explain a heap of things to us.” With trembling fingers the big coward fumbled at the string. With all his fluent will he longed to resist, but the compelling eyes that met his so steadily were not to be resisted. Slowly he unwrapped the paper and took the lid from the little box, inside of which was coiled up a thin gold chain with locket pendant. “Be seated,” ordered Bucky sternly, and after the man had found a chair the ranger sat down opposite him. From its holster he drew a revolver and from a pocket his watch. He laid them on the table side by side and looked across at the white-lipped trembler whom he faced. “We had better understand each other, Mr. Anderson. I’ve come here to get from you the story of that chain, so far as you know it. If you don’t care to tell it I shall have to mess this floor up with your remains. Get one proposition into your cocoanut right now. You don’t get out of this room alive with your secret. It’s up to you to choose.” Quite without dramatics, as placidly as if he were discussing railroad rebates, the ranger delivered his ultimatum. It seemed plain that he considered the issue no responsibility of his. Anderson stared at him in silent horror, moistening his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. Once his gaze shifted to the sheriff but found small comfort there. Collins had picked up a newspaper and was absorbed in it. “Are you going to let him kill me?” the man asked him hoarsely. He looked up from his newspaper in mild protest at such unreason. “Me? I ain’t sittin’ in this game. Seems like I mentioned that already.” “Better not waste your time, signor, on side issues,” advised the man behind the gun. “For I plumb forgot to tell you I’m allowing only three minutes to begin your story, half of which three has already slipped away to yesterday’s seven thousand years. Without wantin’ to hurry you, I suggest the wisdom of a prompt decision.” “Would he do it?” gasped the victim, with a last appeal to Collins. “Would he what? Oh, shoot you up. Cayn’t tell till I see. If he says he will he’s liable to. He always was that haidstrong.” “But—why—why—”