“We rode and rode hard—it must have been hours; daylight was coming before we stopped. Our horses were spent I had no idea where we were. From the formation of the land, I judged we were not far from the river. We were surrounded by bluffs. I can hardly make you see how cleverly this little retreat had been planned. It was in a valley—one of a hundred similar in all essential respects. The gulch at the bottom of the valley was heavily wooded with scrub-oak, cottonwood, woodbine, and plum-trees, and this tangle of foliage extended for some distance up the sides of the hills. In the midst of this underbrush—a most excellent screen—was a tiny cabin. In this tiny cabin I have lived, a closely watched prisoner, from that day until I escaped.” The defendant stirred a little uneasily. Was he thinking of Nightbird with the dark, frozen face—who had not answered to his call? “Black left me soon after. He did not unbind me, rather bound me the tighter. There was no one then to watch me. He deigned to inform me that he had found it rather inconvenient to kill me after the relief party rode up, as then there was no absolute surety of his making a clean get-away, and being caught in the act would be bound to be unpleasant, very unpleasant just then, so he had altered his plans a little—for the present. He gave me no hint either that time, nor either of the two times I saw him subsequently, as to what was to be his ultimate disposal of me. I could only suppose that after this trial was well over in his favor, and fear of indictment for arson and murder had blown over—if blow over it did,—he would then quietly put an end to me. Dead men tell no tales. The shanty in the gulch did not seem to be much of a rendezvous for secret meetings. I led a lonely existence. My jailers were mostly half-breeds—usually Charlie Nightbird. Two or three times Jake Sanderson was my guard.” Then from the doorway came a loud, clear, resonant voice, a joyful voice, a voice whose tones fairly oozed rapture. “Hellity damn! The Three Bars’s a gettin’ busy, Mouse-hair!” Judge Dale started. He glared angrily in that direction. “Remove that man!” he ordered, curtly. He liked Jim, but he could not brook this crying contempt of court. Jim was removed. He went quietly, but shaking his head reproachfully. “I never would ’a’ thought it o’ the Jedge,” he murmured, disconsolately. “I never would ’a’ thought it.” There was a movement in the back of the room. A man was making his way out, slipping along, cat-like, trying to evade attention. Quietly Gordon motioned to the sheriff and slipped a paper into his hand. “Look sharp,” he whispered, his steady eyes on the shifty ones of the sheriff. “If you let him get away, just remember the handwriting on the wall. It’s our turn now.” Presently, there was a slight scuffle by the door and two men quietly left the improvised court-room.