“No, there ain’t no use tryin’ it, for you couldn’t get away, even if you got out of this house. The entrance to this valley is guarded, and there are the dogs. They’re kind, unless we set them on the trail of somebody, and then that somebody had better look out, if the dogs overtake him. So don’t try. I’d hate to have the dogs chew you up. Not but that you’d make dainty eating for them; but I shouldn’t like it, and for you it would be mightily unpleasant.” He started to lock the door, drawing it half shut. “Think it over,” he urged. “I’m serious, and in this game of robbery I’m not a hypocrite, but play the game fair, and risk my life like a man in doing it. Think it over. To be queen of Panther Pete’s road, agents won’t be so bad as you may think. Take time to study the situation. I’ll make you a good husband, if you’ll give me the chance. And, if you don’t willingly, I’ll be your husband anyway, and you’ll have your trouble for your pains.” He closed the door and locked it, and she heard his footsteps as he departed. Then she threw herself blindly on the floor, in a very paroxysm of terror and anguish, sobbing. “I must--must get away from here!” she cried. “I must--to-night--to-night! Oh, I must get out of this house!” CHAPTER XL. THE RAIN MAKER. Panther Pete was not fool enough not to know that there would be a pursuit of himself, although he hoped that Bug-eye Slocum and his friend Nate Rainey would be able to divert that pursuit in a wrong direction. Yet he was taking no chances; so he sent back over the various trails that led in the direction of Scarlet Gulch what he called “stool pigeons,” clever members of his road agent band, men whose shrewdness he could rely on, and whose judgment and courage he could trust. It was the business of these men to draw any pursuers into a certain trap--a peculiar place, rock surrounded, not far from the hidden valley, where they could be slaughtered readily by the road agents. Bill Hatfield was one of the “pigeons,” and about the shrewdest of the lot. He had been sent out, and he had climbed into a low, thick tree, after morning came, and from that coign of vantage was watching the trail that stretched in the direction of the town, expecting momentarily to see in it something worth while. What he saw after a time was Silas Deland and young Ben Denton. They were mounted, but were coming on slowly, for Denton’s wound made him weak. He was hollow-eyed and pale; in this respect his face being in most marked contrast with the red face of Deland. “’Tain’t Buffler Bill,” said the “pigeon” in the tree, “ner anybody like him; but they’re from ther town, and what they’re out hyer fer nobody don’t need ter ask. So, I reckons, according to the order of ther boss, it’s my duty to cut in, if I can.” Yet he did not descend from the tree, but sat crouched in the thick branches, watching the advance of the pair.