"Never mind who is with me. I can play this hand alone. Put up that gun and then we'll talk." That suited Meldrum. If it was a question of explanations, perhaps he could whine his way out of this. What he had been afraid of was immediate battle. One cannot talk bullets aside. Slowly he pushed his revolver into its holster, but the hand of the man rested still on the butt. "I came back to help Miss Rutherford out of this prospect hole," he whimperingly complained. "When onc't I got sober, I done recalled that she was here. So I hit the trail back." Meldrum spoke the exact truth. When the liquor was out of him, he became frightened at what he had done. He had visions of New Mexico hunting him down like a wild dog. At last, unable to stand it any longer, he had come back to free her. "That's good. Saves me the trouble of looking for you. I'm going to give you a choice. You and I can settle this thing with guns right here and now. That's one way out for you. I'll kill you where you stand." "W--what's the other way?" stammered the outlaw. "The other way is for you to jump into that prospect hole. I'll ride away and leave you there to starve." "Goddlemighty! You wouldn't do that," Meldrum wheedled. "I didn't go for to hurt Miss Rutherford any. Didn't I tell you I was drunk?" "Dead or alive, you're going into that prospect hole. Make up your mind to that." The bad man moistened his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. He stole one furtive glance around. Could he gun this man and make his getaway? "Are any of the Rutherfords back of that clump of aspens?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. "Yes." "Do . . . do they know I'm here?" "Not yet." Tiny beads of sweat stood out on the blotched face of the rustler. He was trapped. Even if he fired through the leather holster and killed Beaudry, there would be no escape for him on his tired horse. "Gimme a chanc't," he pleaded desperately. "Honest to God, I'll clear out of the country for good. I'll quit belling around and live decent. I'll--" "You'll go into the pit." Meldrum knew as he looked into that white, set face that he had come to his day of judgment. But he mumbled a last appeal. "I'm an old man, Mr. Beaudry. I ain't got many years--" "Have you made your choice?" cut in Roy coldly. "I'd do anything you say--go anywhere--give my Bible oath never to come back." "Perhaps I'd better call Rutherford." The bad man made a trembling clutch toward him. "Don't you, Mr. Beaudry. I'll--I'll go into the pit," he sobbed. "Get in, then." "I know you wouldn't leave me there to starve. That would be an awful thing to do," the killer begged. "You're finding that out late. It didn't worry you when Dave Dingwell was being starved." "I hadn't a thing to do with that--not a thing, Mr. Beaudry. Hal Rutherford, he give the order and it was up to me to go through. Honest, that was the way of it."