He was rolling a cigarette, the black-haired man. Now he looked up sideway at the lieutenant, as he put away Durham and papers, with the ready grin that showed his white teeth. “Prob’ly didn’t look no worse, at that,” he smiled, “than me’n Bill here!” The lieutenant laughed with him, then sobered abruptly. “Well, I’m glad you fellows happened along,” he remarked. “I think I’ll have a look at your back-trail tomorrow and see if I can have a talk with Lengthy and his friends. Four, eh? By Jove! That would be the tally, now, if they killed two in Kansas!” * * * * * Behind the spring-wagon rolling south again with dawn, the cavalry camp had vanished. The troopers were in the saddle, heading north to investigate “Lengthy.” The black-haired man turned on the box-seat and his white teeth showed; he shook with noiseless laughter. “An’ he’s goin’ to have a look at ‘Lengthy!’ he exploded suddenly. “Oh, Lawdy! I sure wish him lots o’ luck!” “Well, he pitched a big scare into me, just the same!” nodded Jack Davis, sourly. ‘When he says he’s a-lookin’ for train-robbers, Sam, I could count the bars on the winder!” “He never scared me half as much as you did!” grunted Sam Bass, irritably. “You blame’ fool! You like to make him suspicious o’ us!” “Do you reckon they are a-lookin’ for us?” Jack Davis was plainly uneasy at the thought. “Hell! Mebbe we better not figger on goin’ to Denton, Sam! We got twenty thousand between us. Let’s head for South America.” “No!” Sam Bass’ square jaw was set and his mouth tight beneath the brown mustache. “No, sir! There’s folks in Denton I want to show a few. They always said I’d never amount to nothin’, a-runnin’ around the country like I did, clean down to Dallas, to race the Denton Mare. I want to parade down the street a-throwin’ twenty-dollar gold-pieces over the bars. We’ll have a look, though, before we ride in.” Jack Davis, whose nerves were tense from uncertainty these days, and who shared none of Sam Bass’ pleasure at nearing Denton, nodded gloomily. “’S a good idee,” he said. “But me, I wisht we was high-tailin’ it for South America.” To which Sam replied with a glint of white teeth beneath his mustache, as they squatted on the edge of the bottoms, waiting for dusk and his trip to the house of a certain good friend. If Sheriff Everhart and certain others of the oldsters in the community had looked askance at Sam and his wild ways, almost without exception the younger generation had been always on his side. As the owner of that little sorrel beauty, The Denton Mare, he had been known far and wide; known and liked immensely.