"Why doesn't he shoot?" thought José. "A brave, bold man! It is a pity to kill him." "A moment more, and I'll have him!" exulted Conrad. Fifteen feet, twelve feet, ten feet--still the space between them lessened, and still the silence was unbroken and their guns at unchanging aim. Another step, and Curtis saw José's eyes waver; another, and heard him draw a little, gasping breath. He saw irresolution flash across the Mexican's face, saw his finger leave the trigger, his right arm tremble, and drop to his side. Conrad felt cold sweat break out over his body and there was a loud buzzing in his ears. Yet neither in face nor eyes was there a sign that he had seen any change. With his gaze still fixed on the other's downcast lids, he moved sidewise around the bush, and stood beside Gonzalez. "Give me your gun, butt first," he commanded in a low, tense voice. José raised his eyes to meet the muzzle of the gun looking blankly between his brows. "You can take it if you like, Don Curtis," he said unsteadily. "I am not going to shoot you. Here it is." "Now," said Curtis, pointing both guns at José's head, "tell me the name of the man who hired you to kill me." The Mexican started in surprise. He shrugged his shoulders, looked at the guns again, shuffled his feet uneasily. "Don Curtis, how can I?" he exclaimed in a reproachful tone. "You should not ask that question. It is not fair." "Neither was it fair for you to try to stick me in the back before I was onto your game. So we're even now, as you told me once before. You've got to tell! I don't want to kill you, José; but, by God! I will, if you don't give up that man's name. I'll give you one minute to think it over; and if you don't speak out then, I'll blow your head off." Gonzalez sent one searching glance into Conrad's set face, and dropped sullen eyes to the ground. He knew there was only one thing to do if he wished to live. For half the minute he stared downward, then looked blankly up at Curtis. "Fifteen seconds more," said the stern voice. His face worked, his lips opened and closed again. Then he seemed to gather himself together for the unwilling effort, and the words fairly rushed from his mouth: "It is your friend, Señor Bancroft." "What!" exclaimed Curtis, in a voice that had sunk back into his throat. Gonzalez repeated his words. Conrad leaned forward, white with anger, and thrust the two revolvers close to the other's face. "José," he said slowly, in hard, sharp tones, "a little while ago a man told me that. I shook him as if he'd been a dog and told him that he lied. I ask you once more, the last time, who is it?"