The swinging half-door gave easily under his hand, and he stepped into a square, half-darkened room, with stained wooden tables and a long mahogany bar. There was no one in sight, and Tad hesitated a moment in the middle of the sanded floor, looking about him, disappointed. Then he caught the sound of voices and low laughter and saw that the door leading into the rear room stood slightly ajar. He fancied that it was Allen he heard, laughing over having given him the slip. Quickly he crossed the floor, pushed open the door, and walked through. A glance showed him that there were only three men in the room, and that Allen was not one of them. At the right of the table was a broad, thick-necked, powerfully-built man with a tight stock and a red, angry-looking face. Next him sat a thin, sallow, rat-eyed fellow with a nervous affection that twitched one corner of his mouth downward into a sneer every second or two. The third member of the party slouched in his chair, a long, slim figure with a dark mustache, the upper part of his face shaded by the broad brim of his hat. Each of the three had started slightly at the lad’s abrupt entrance, and they now sat watching him with hostile eyes. “I--I beg your pardon,” said Tad. “I thought a friend of mine came in here.” And he started to back out. Suddenly the tall man with the black mustache was on his feet. “Wait!” he ordered in a husky voice that struck terror to Tad’s heart. “Stay where yo’ are, suh.” But waiting was the last thing in the boy’s mind. He had caught a glimpse of the man’s face and his long, slim hands. It was the Wheeling gambler who had thrown him overboard from the _Ohio Belle_. With a sense of panic he turned and darted for the door, but he never reached it. A stool came whirling through the air and struck him in the back of the head, and down he went, his mind blanked out in a roaring gulf of darkness. CHAPTER XII The next thing Tad knew was a sensation of intense physical discomfort. His head throbbed fiercely, his wrists were chafed, and he lay, in a very painful position, face down, across the saddle-bow of a galloping horse. When his senses had cleared enough for him to remember what had happened, he tried to figure out where these desperadoes were taking him. But all that he could see, facing the ground, was the packed brown earth of the roadside and the flashing green of undergrowth beyond. He had a vague recollection of having been carried up a long, steep hill; so he supposed they must have climbed one of the roads that ran up along the bluff. One other thing he noticed, and that seemed to increase the hazards of a situation which surely was already serious enough. As he swung, head down, he could watch the rhythmic movement of the horse’s legs. Both forelegs white up to the knee--one hind leg white above the hock; three white “stockings.” Where had he heard, in the last few days, of a “three-stocking” horse?