"That couldn't be," muttered Steve. "And yet-- Anyhow, I've got to get off here. Will you stop, please?" "No, I won't stop please! Nobody asked you to ride that I know of. Get off the same way you got on!" Packard realized two things very clearly then: If he jumped with the car going at its present speed he would probably break his neck; if he gave any considerable time to arguing the matter with her he would be carried as far in five minutes as he could walk in an hour. "I mean business to-night," he told her bluntly. "If you don't slow down before I count ten I am going to lean out a little--like this--and shoot a hole in your tire. Then, if you keep on, I'll shoot a hole in the other tire. Understand?" Terry laughed mockingly. "You wouldn't dare!" she told him serenely. "That would be some kind of a crime; they could put you in jail for it. You'd be scared to." "One, two, three, four, five," he counted briskly. "I would seek to interrupt to advise, oh, Miss Lady!" chattered Iki. "His voice has the sound of bloodthirstiness." "Six, seven, eight, nine--ten," counted Packard. Terry sniffed. He leaned out, she saw the glint of the moon upon his revolver. She threw out her clutch and jammed down both brakes, hard. Steve swung out and down to the ground. The car, as though it had gained fresh power from the fact of being freed of his weight, shot forward, stopped again. "Not exactly friends?" cried Terry, and he marked a new trembling in her voice. "I should say not. You--you darned snake, you!" And she was gone, spinning along into the night, hidden from him by the first hill around whose base the road curved. He stared after her a moment, shrugged, turned his back, and strode rapidly toward the Ranch Number Ten corrals. He had planned correctly; he had correctly measured Blenham's impulses and desires. Further, he had come in time, just in time. The light was in the ranch-house. Though but little after eleven o'clock it was dark within the bunk-house, the men long ago asleep. But Barbee was awake, his wits about him; his voice and Blenham's, both quiet, met Steve's ears as he slipped about the corner of the house, coming under the window where the light was. Blenham was talking now. He sat loosely in a chair, his hands one upon the other, idle in his lap. Barbee, his eyes narrowed and watchful, stood at the far side of the room. On the floor, near his feet, was a revolver; from its position Steve guessed that Barbee had just kicked it safely out of Blenham's reach. Barbee's own gun was in the boy's hand. "You're a pretty foxy kid, Barbee," Blenham was saying tonelessly. "You got the drop on me; you're the firs' man as ever did that little trick. Yes; you're a pretty foxy kid!" Barbee shrugged and spat and answered Blenham with a curse and a grunted: "Nobody's askin' your opinion, Blenham." But Steve saw and Blenham must have seen the gleam of triumph in Barbee's eye.