“Here's another thing. Wilson's out of the running--suppose he puts you out too. What are Pink and I going to do? We have no authority to arrest the man. I'm not even sure that it would be to our interest to try it in such a case. Why not wait--just settle down to it. We can get something to eat from Van Deelen. Say, didn't you tell him to follow us with the wagon last night?” Beveridge indulged in a dry smile. “Yes, I did. But I didn't more than half think he'd do it. You do as I tell you, Dick, and--” “Well, if your mind's made up, I suppose--” Beveridge's mind was made up. He set out without further words, and Dick watched him, uncertain of his movements, until he saw that he was circling around in the direction of the stump fence and Pink. Dick's thoughts were unsettled. Such actions were foolhardy, now that it was nearly broad daylight. It would have been no trick at all to put a few balls into the body below the waving weeds that marked the progress of the special agent. For some reason, however, the shots did not come. Between Dick and the house there was a comparatively open space. By stepping forward a few yards he would emerge into full view of the man in the house, whereas on Pink's side the growth was rank, and Beveridge, if he should go directly to the house after giving Pink his directions, would not be visible until he should have nearly reached the door. But the telltale weeds!--there was something in the thought of Beveridge being shot down like a porcupine as he floundered through the tangle that made Dick shudder. It would be better to walk straight out into the open and be done with it. Peering from his hiding-place, he could see that all was quiet. Beveridge had reached Pink, and was probably talking with him. But he could not hear their voices--the clearing was absolutely still. He watched--and watched--his eyes fixed on the spot where Beveridge had stopped. Perhaps his arguments had taken effect; perhaps the plan had been changed. But no, the weeds were moving again. Dick's blood was up. He drew his revolver and plunged straight out into the open toward the house. “Here you in there!” he shouted. “Come out or fight! Do you hear me? Come out or fight! We've got you on all sides--you can't hit us all--come out and be done with it.” The house was still. Beveridge heard Dick's voice, and knew what he was doing. He tried to run forward, tripped, and fell headlong in the briers, cursing like a buccaneer. Pink heard both the voice and the tumble, and at the instant he too was fighting madly forward through the weeds. Could he be expected to obey orders? To sit and twiddle his thumbs while Dick was fighting? Not a sound came from the house. Dick walked deliberately to the door and hammered with the muzzle of his revolver. “Come out,” he called, “or I 'll smash it in.” He heard the man stir. “Come out, or by----!” The man was walking slowly across the floor. Dick went on shouting:--