After they had made camp and eaten, the two men sat beside the flickering fire, and Moore told stories of the wild and turbulent life he had known around Dodge City and in the Lincoln County War that was still waging in New Mexico. He had freighted to the Panhandle from El Moro, Colorado, from Wichita Falls, and even from Dodge. The consummate confidence of the man soothed the unease of the young fellow with the hogskin belt. This plainsman knew all that the Southwest had to offer of danger and was equal to any of it. Presently Arthur Ridley grew drowsy. The last that he remembered before he fell asleep was seeing Moore light his pipe again with a live coal from the fire. The Texan was to keep the first watch. It was well along toward morning when the snapping of a bush awakened Ridley. He sat upright and reached quickly for the revolver by his side. "Don't you," called a voice sharply from the brush. Two men, masked with slitted handkerchiefs, broke through the shin-oak just as Arthur whipped up his gun. The hammer fell once--twice, but no explosion followed. With two forty-fives covering him, Ridley, white to the lips, dropped his harmless weapon. Moore came to life with sleepy eyes, but he was taken at a disadvantage, and with a smothered oath handed over his revolver. "Wha-what do you want?" asked Ridley, his teeth chattering. The shorter of the two outlaws, a stocky man with deep chest and extraordinarily broad shoulders, growled an answer. "We want that money of Clint Wadley's you're packin'." The camp-fire had died to ashes, and the early-morning air was chill. Arthur felt himself trembling so that his hands shook. A prickling of the skin went goose-quilling down his back. In the dim light those masked figures behind the businesslike guns were sinister with the threat of mystery and menace. "I--haven't any money," he quavered. "You'd better have it, young fellow, me lad!" jeered the tall bandit. "We're here strictly for business. Dig up." "I don't reckon he's carryin' any money for Clint," Moore argued mildly. "Don't look reasonable that an old-timer like Clint, who knocked the bark off'n this country when I was still a kid, would send a tenderfoot to pack gold 'cross country for him." The tall man swung his revolver on Moore. "'Nuff from you," he ordered grimly. The heavy-set outlaw did not say a word. He moved forward and pressed the cold rim of his forty-five against the forehead of the messenger. The fluttering heart of the young man beat hard against his ribs. His voice stuck in his throat, but he managed to gasp a surrender. "It's in my belt. For God's sake, don't shoot." "Gimme yore belt." The boy unbuckled the ribbon of hogskin beneath his shirt and passed it to the man behind the gun. The outlaw noticed that his fingers were cold and clammy. "Stand back to back," commanded the heavy man.