A silent-footed savage appeared in the doorway, placing before the chief an earthen jar from which a thin curl of smoke ascended. But even then Jesse did not catch the full significance of the chief's intentions. From the receptacle the Indian removed a short iron rod. It's end was at white heat. Great Bear moistened a finger at his lips and touched it. The rod hissed angrily. Jesse understood now. It was a branding iron. But still he did not quail, though his passions rose in a perfect storm. "Paleface like um?" grinned Great Bear once more causing the hot iron to hiss. "Never ate any," retorted the desperado with a grin that was even more expansive than that of the chief. "Going to brand some stock that you have stolen, eh?" "Huh! Indian no brand cows. Um brand men. Um burn you." "Oh, so that's the game is it? You're going to brand me like you would a critter on the range? Well, what do you think my men will do to you if I don't get away from here before you do it? Think they will do anything to you, you black-hearted cur?" "Paleface no hurt Indian. Paleface all dead." "That's a lie. One of them is here now watching you. He'll carry the word to the men and if there is not enough of them left he'll go to the fort for help. Guess the soldiers wouldn't do much to you." Great Bear cast a glance that was almost apprehensive, out through the opening. With an expression that was half snarl, half grunt he drew the branding iron from the pot and squatted down beside the great outlaw, leering down into his face, gloating over the joy that was to be his. Roughly he tore apart his prisoner's shirt and drove the blunt, white hot iron against his chest. The iron hissed again. But this time a little thin line of blue smoke curled upward. Great Bear inhaled a deep breath of heavenly satisfaction as the odour of burning flesh permeated his nostrils. Jesse steeling himself, glared back at his tormentor. He gave no sign that he sensed the excruciating torture. But the lines of his mouth drew tense and hard. The redskin replaced the iron in its heating pot and sat gloating over his victim as it burned again to a white heat. Next he bared the left side of the outlaw and carefully selected his spot with the eyes of an expert, he applied the torture rod, holding it in place with steady, resistless pressure. The agony that the victim suffered was almost more than human being could endure. But still the man of iron there at the stake made no outcry, gave no sign, still smiling up at his tormentor. But the eyes were not in sympathy with the smile on the lips. They were cold and steely--they were the eyes of the gun-expert at the moment when he is about to take the life of a human being.