Night settled early, for long before twilight the sky became heavily overcast and a wind rose, sweeping the dust up in clouds as it drove through the town, and auguring a rainstorm. The doctor placed a light in his office, then took his station at a window in an unlighted front room. The minutes dragged. Eight o’clock struck, and nine. “Mebbe that sick feller did die,” he said to Letty over the telephone. “But----” He hung up the receiver abruptly. There was a sound of galloping in the street. It ceased at the gate, when heavy steps came hurrying to his porch. It was the man with the scar. “Doc,” he began, panting with his hard ride, “you said you’d operate----” “Ready in a jiffy,” answered the doctor, and turned away to pick up hat and case. The next instant there was a choking cry from the porch, then loud curses and the sound of fierce scuffling. The doctor whirled. The man with the scar was flat on his back at the threshold, his wrists manacled, his shins ironed; over him stood a smooth-shaven, thick-set, middle-aged man armed with a revolver--the man who had halted the doctor on the Blue Top road; and Eastman was there. “He stole my boy!” the father called out furiously. “I’m going to kill him!” He flung himself forward. The man with the revolver pushed him back. And, “No! No!” expostulated the doctor. “Eastman! You’re makin’ a mistake!” The prisoner gave a loud, hard laugh. “You bet your life he’s making a mistake!” he declared. “We got you just the same,” said the man with the revolver triumphantly. “Put him on a horse,” ordered Eastman, maddened more than ever by the taunting laugh. “He’ll take me to my boy or I’ll kill him.” The captured man ignored the father. His look was on the doctor, and it was full of hate. “Ah, h--l!” he exclaimed disgustedly. “I could kick myself! Last night I had my finger on the trigger. But like a fool----” Eastman was sobbing in baffled rage. “My baby!” he cried. “Four days with this brute! Think of it!” “No more monkey business.” The man with the revolver was speaking, and he gave his prisoner a rough poke in the side with his boot. “You’re in the hands of the Sheriff, and you’re going to take us out to that cañon. We start right off.” “No, we don’t,” was the answer. “You’ve trapped me, the three of you. Send me up if you can. My word’s as good as this doctor’s, and I don’t have to take you anywhere to hunt for evidence against me.” “Get up,” commanded the sheriff. He unbuckled the irons from his prisoner’s legs. The man with the scar rose. “Nobody’ll ever find that cabin or what’s in it,” he said doggedly. “And when Bill dies----” “Oh, my God!” It was the father. The doctor was leaning in the doorway. “What’d you do this for, Mr. Eastman?” he asked.