Hopalong opened his eyes and looked around, dazed and sick. The foreman, bound hand and foot by a forty-five foot lariat, lay close to the base of the wall and stared sullenly at the sky. Sammy was coming up the trail with a dripping sombrero held carefully in his hands and was growling and talking it all over. Hopalong looked down at his thigh and saw a heavy, blood-splotched bandage fastened clumsily in place. Glancing at Sammy again he idly noted that part of the youth’s blue-flannel shirt was missing. Curiously, it matched the bandage. He closed his eyes and tried to think what it was all about. Sammy ambled up to him, threw some water in the bruised face and then grinned cheerfully at the language he evoked. Producing a flask and holding it up to the light, Sammy slid his thumb to a certain level and then shoved the bottle against his friend’s teeth. "Huh!" he chuckled, yanking the bottle away. "You’ll be all right in a couple of days. But you shore are one h—l of a sight—it’s a toss-up between you an’ Atkins." * * * * * It was night. Hopalong stirred and arose on one elbow and noticed that he was lying on a blanket that covered a generous depth of leaves and pine boughs. The sap-filled firewood crackled and popped and hissed and whistled under the licking attack of the greedy flames, which flared up and died down in endless alternation, and which grotesquely revealed to Hopalong’s throbbing eyes a bound figure lying on another blanket. That, he decided, was the foreman. Letting his gaze wander around the lighted circle he made out a figure squatting on the other side of the fire, and concluded it was Sammy Porter. "What you doin’, Kid?" he asked. Sammy arose and walked over to him. "Oh, just watchin’ a fool puncher an’ five hundred dollars," he grinned. "How you feelin’ now, you ol’ sage hen?" "Good," replied the invalid, and, comparatively, it was the truth. "Fine an’ strong," he added, which was not the truth. "That’s the way to talk," cheered the Cub. "You shore had one fine séance. You earned that five hundred, all right." Hopalong reflected and then looked across at the prisoner. "He can fight like the devil," he muttered. "Why, I kicked him hard enough to kill anybody else." He turned again and looked Sammy in the eyes, smiling as best he could. "There ain’t no five hundred for me, Kid. I did n’t come for that, did n’t know nothin’ about it. An’ it’s blood money, besides. We ’ll turn him loose if he ’ll get out of the country, hey? We ’ll give him a chance; either that or you take th’ reward." Sammy stared, grunted and stared again. "What you ravin’ about?" he demanded. "An’ you didn’t come after him for that money?" he asked, sarcastically.