Within fourteen days thereafter nine men who had attempted to interfere with the escaping gambler paid for their foolhardiness with their lives, and all the time, little by little, Cutler was getting closer to the mountains, whose shelter meant so much to him. Sometimes hidden for hours in a haystack, or lying flat under the rafters of a barn loft, the fugitive moved on his way. The main body of pursuers often got within gun-shot of him, but luck favoured the man, and he always managed to find cover just in time. Finally, completely worn out--he had ridden two horses to death and abandoned others commandeered for the time being--Cutler reached the foot of the scrub hills or little range which lay between him and his goal. Here, for the first time, he came in contact with a number of the “man-hunters.” “Lon” Masters--a noted character in Montana, and himself a dead shot--accompanied by eight cowboys, suddenly appeared over a rise in the ground. Cutler, on foot, saw them coming. He dropped on one knee and his rifle flew to his shoulder. The horsemen drew rein, and Masters, making a trumpet of his hands, shouted, “Don’t be a fool, Jim; you’re sure to be caught sooner or later. Let me take you, and I’ll promise no harm shall come to you. You know my word.” [Illustration: TABLE ROCK, CUTLER’S STRONGHOLD IN BEULAH COUNTY. _From a Photograph._] “Can’t do it, Lon,” Cutler shouted back. “If they give me ten days without interference I’ll give myself up--you know _my_ word.” “Jim,” responded Masters, “if you don’t drop your gun we shall have to fire.” “Crack! crack! crack!” came the answer from Cutler’s gun, Masters and two others of the party being hit. The remainder now urged their horses forward, but, as first one and then another rider was “winged” by the desperate man in front of them, the remainder decided that they had urgent business elsewhere, and rode back for reinforcements. At last, after a weary night’s climb, Cutler reached the place he had been making for. He had not slept more than an hour or two for days, and so, secure for a time at least--for no one could climb these hills quicker than he had done--the worn-out man dropped in a heap. Cutler’s hiding place was a barren ledge, some fifty yards in extent, the only approach thereto being the bridle-path by which he had come. Two, or at most three, at a time was the only formation in which his pursuers could get anywhere near him, and with Cutler’s knowledge of the use of firearms this was a ticklish undertaking, to say the least of it. Moreover, he could see anyone approaching along the valley for a great distance. There was plenty of water a little distance down the path, Cutler had sufficient food with him to last for a week, and he felt he could “make a get-away” during this time.