James' desperate courage never deserted him for an instant. And Scipio was never allowed to complete his sentence. The other's hand suddenly reached out, and the pistol was twisted from his shaking grasp with as little apparent effort as though he had been a small child. Scipio stared helpless and confused while James eyed the pattern of the gun. Then he heard the man's contemptuous laugh and saw him pull the trigger. The hammer refused to move. It was so rusted that the weapon was quite useless. For a moment the desperado's eyes sought the pale face of his would-be slayer. A devilish smile lurked in their depths. Then he held out the pistol for the other to take, while his whole manner underwent a hideous change. "Here, take it, you wretched worm," he cried, with sudden savagery. "Take it, you miserable fool," he added, as Scipio remained unheeding. "It wouldn't blow even your fool brains out. Take it!" he reiterated, with a command the other could no longer resist. "And now get out of here," he went on mercilessly, as Scipio's hand closed over the wretched weapon, "or I'll hand you over to the boys. They'll show you less mercy than I do. They're waiting out there," he cried, pointing at the door, "for my orders. One word from me and they'll cut the liver out of you with rawhides, and Abe Conroy'll see it's done right. Get you right out of here, and if ever you come squealing around my quarters again I'll have you strung up by your wretched neck till you're dead--dead as a crushed worm--dead as is your wife, Jessie, to you from now out. Get out of here, you straw-headed sucker, get right out, quick!" But the tide of the man's fury seemed to utterly pass the little man by. He made no attempt to obey. The pistol hung in his tightly gripping hand, and his underlip protruded obstinately. "She's mine, you thief!" he cried. "Give her back to me." It was the cry of a beaten man whose spirit is unquenchable. But James had finished. All that was worst in him was uppermost now. With eyes blazing he stepped to the door and whistled. He might have been whistling up his dogs. Perhaps those who responded were his dogs. Three men came in, and the foremost of them was Abe Conroy. "Here," cried James, his cruel eyes snapping, "take him out and set him on his horse, and send him racing to hell after m'squitoes. And don't handle him too easy." What happened to him after that Scipio never fully understood. He had a vague memory of being seized and buffeted and kicked into a state of semi-unconsciousness. Nor did he rouse out of his stupor, until, sick and sore in every limb, his poor yellow head aching and confused, he found himself swaying dangerously about in the saddle, with Gipsy, racing like a mad thing, under his helpless legs. CHAPTER VI SUNNY OAK PROTESTS