"Yeah!" the latter snarled. "An' have somebody come along an' find him! Like as not he'd hang on long enough to blab all he knows, an' then where would we be? Where would we be even if somebody run acrost his body? I ain't takin' no chances like that, I'll tell the world!" "But isn't there some other way?" faltered the high-pitched voice. In the brief pause that followed, Stratton dragged his lids open. He was lying where he had fallen at the curve in the trail. Tex Lynch stood close beside him. A little beyond, leaning against the rocky cliff, was a bulky figure in a long dust-coat. He had pushed up his motor-goggles and was wiping his forehead with a limp handkerchief. His round, fat face, with pursed-up lips and wide-open light-blue eyes, bore the expression of a fretful child. On his left was a lean, thin-faced fellow with a black mustache who looked scared and nervous. There was no sign of the third person who had been in the car, and even at this crucial moment Buck found time to observe the absence of his horse, Pete, and wondered momentarily what had become of him. "Yuh an' Hurd go back to the car." Lynch broke the silence in a tone of sudden decision. "I'll tend to this business, an' there won't be no shootin' neither. Hustle, now! We ain't got any time to lose." Again Buck shuddered, and there pulsed through him that tremendous and passionate instinct for self-preservation which comes to every man at such a time. What Tex meant to do he could not guess, but he knew that if he were left alone with the fellow he might as well give up all hope. He was weak as a cat, and felt sure that no appeal from him would move Lynch a particle. His only chance lay with the fat man and his companion, and as the two turned away, Buck tried his best to call out after them. The only result was an inarticulate croak. Lynch heard it, and instantly dropping on his knees, he clapped one hand over Stratton's mouth. In spite of Buck's futile struggles, he held it there firmly while the two men moved out of sight down the trail. His face, which still bore the fading marks of Buck's fists, was a trifle pale, but hard and determined, and in his eyes triumph and a curious, nervous shrinking struggled for mastery. But as the moments dragged on leaden wings, not a word passed his tight lips. Presently he glanced swiftly over one shoulder. An instant later Buck's lips were freed, and he felt the foreman's hands slipping under his body. "You hellion!" he gasped, as Lynch's purpose flashed on him in all its horror. "You damned cowardly hound!" As he felt himself thrust helplessly toward the precipice, Buck made a tremendous, despairing effort and managed to catch Lynch by the belt and clung there for a moment. When one hand was torn loose, he even struck Tex wildly in the face. But there was no strength in his arm, and Lynch, with a growl of rage, jerked himself free and sprang to his feet.