With a curse, the boy flung the weapon down on the bed. He could not possibly kill a man so willing as this. To draw guns with him, and chance the issue, would have suited young Sanderson exactly. But this way would be no less than murder. "You devil!" he cried, with a boyish sob. Weaver picked up the revolver, and examined it. "Mighty careless of Ned to leave it lying around this way," he commented absently, as if unaware of the other's rage. "You never can tell when a gun is going to get into the wrong hands." "What are you letting me go for? You've got a reason. What is it?" Phil demanded. Weaver looked at him through narrowed, daredevil eyes. "The ransom price has been paid," he explained. "Paid! Who paid it?" "Miss Phyllis Sanderson." "Phyllis?" repeated the boy incredulously. "But she had no money." "Did I say she paid it in money?" "What do you mean?" "She asked me to set you free. I named my price, and she agreed." "What was your price?" the boy asked hoarsely. "A kiss." At that, Phil struck him full in the sardonic, mocking face. Blood crimsoned the lips that had been crushed against the strong, white teeth. "Again," said Weaver. The brown fist went back and shot forward like a piston rod. This time it left an ugly gash over the cheek bone. "Much obliged. Once more." The young man balanced himself carefully, and struck hard and true between the eyes. A third, a fourth, and a fifth time Phil lashed out at the disfigured, grinning face. "Let's make it an even half dozen," the cattleman suggested. But Phil had had enough of it. This was too much like butchery. His passion had spent itself. He struck, but with no force behind the blow. Weaver went to the washstand, dashed some water on his face, and pressed a towel against the raw wounds. He flung the red-soaked towel aside just as Curly cantered up on Sanderson's horse. The cow-puncher stared at his boss in amazement, opened his lips to speak, and thought better of it. He looked at Phil, whose knuckles were badly barked and bleeding. Curly had seen his master marked up before, but on such occasions the other man was a sight for the gods to wonder at. Now Weaver was the spectacle, and the other was untouched. In view of Buck's reputation as a rough-and-tumble fighter, this seemed no less than a miracle. Curly departed with the wonder unexplained, for Weaver dismissed him with a nod. "Like to see your sister before you go?" the cattleman asked curtly of Phil, over his shoulder. "Yes." Buck led the way across the plaza to the house, and clapped his hands in the hall. Josephine answered the summons. "Tell Miss Sanderson that her brother would like to see her." The woman vanished up the stairway, and the two men waited in silence. Presently Phyllis stood in the door. Her eyes ignored Weaver, and were only for her brother. Her first glance told her that all was well so far as he was concerned, even though it also let her know that the boy was anxious.