The phonograph lifted up its voice again. This time it was "I love a lassie." Before the song was finished there came the sound of shuffling feet. One of the men in the next stall was leaving. Curly could not tell which one, nor did he dare look over the top of the partition to find out. He was playing safe. This adventure had caught him so unexpectedly that he had not found time to run back to his room for his six-gun. What would happen to him if he were caught listening was not a matter of doubt. Soapy would pump lead into him till he quit kicking, slap a saddle on a broncho, and light out for the Sonora line. As the phonograph finished unexpectedly--someone had evidently interrupted the record--the fragment of a sentence seemed to jump at Curly. " ... so the kid will get his in the row." It was the voice of Soapy, raised slightly to make itself heard above the music. "Take care," another voice replied, and Flandrau would have sworn that this belonged to Blackwell. Stone, who had been sitting on the other side of the table, moved close to the paroled convict. Between him and Curly there was only the thickness of a plank. The young man was afraid that the knocking of his heart could be heard. " ... don't like it," Blackwell was objecting sullenly. "Makes it safe for us. Besides"--Stone's voice grated like steel rasping steel, every word distinct though very low--"I swore to pay off Luck Cullison, and by God! I'm going to do it." "Someone will hear you if you ain't careful," the convict protested anxiously. "Don't be an old woman, Lute." " ... if you can do it safe. I owe Luck Cullison much as you do, but...." Again they fell to whispers. The next word that came to Curly clearly was his own name. But it was quite a minute before he gathered what they were saying. "Luck Cullison went his bail. I learnt it this mo'ning." "The son-of-a-gun. It's a cinch he's a spy. And me wanting you to let him in so's he could hold the sack instead of Sam." "Knew it wouldn't do, Lute. He's smart as a whip." "Reckon he knows anything?" "No. Can't." "If I thought he did----" "Keep your shirt on, Lute. He don't know a thing. And you get revenge on him all right. Sam will run with him and his friends while he's here. Consequence is, when they find the kid where we leave him they'll sure guess Curly for one of his pardners. Tell you his ticket is good as bought to Yuma. He's a horse thief. Why shouldn't he be a train robber, too. That's how a jury will argue." Blackwell grumbled something under his breath. Stone's voice grated harshly. "Me too. If he crosses my trail I'm liable to spoil his hide before court meets. No man alive can play me for a sucker and throw me down. Not Soapy Stone." Once more the voices ran together indistinctly. It was not till Blackwell suggested that they go get a drink that Curly understood anything more of what was being said. The outlaws passed out of the little room and strolled forward to the bar.