Startled by this question, apparently coming from a clear sky, Roy did not reply for a moment. “Answer me!” growled Froud. He thrust his left hand out and seized the boy by the throat. Like a flash, Roy realized his intention. For reasons of his own, Froud wanted Roy out of the way. If he could get him to draw, he could kill him in cold blood, and then say that he shot in self-defense. The fact that Roy had his gun in his hand would corroborate his story. With anger surging within him at the cowardly trick, Roy sat perfectly still. Froud wound his fingers about the boy’s throat and, with a sneering laugh, made as if to choke him. Then with a grunt as if of contempt he took his hand away. “You’re not worth it,” he snarled. “You an’ that sissy brother of yores ought to be travelin’ with a nurse!” He looked keenly at Roy, but the young rancher did not reply. He stared long and steadily back at Froud. “So you know Checkered Shirt, hey?” the rustler mused. “Well, I don’t! I never saw him in my life! Get that? I don’t know who he is!” Realizing that, by this very denial, forcible as it was, he admitted the thing he was repudiating, Froud stopped. “You think yore pretty clever, don’t you?” he demanded. Roy made no answer. He kept staring at Froud. “Answer me, you rat! Thought you’d corner me an’ make me confess to a thing I never did, hey?” “You’re the best judge of that,” Roy replied coldly. For a moment Froud glared at the boy. Then, with a snarl of rage, he leaped his horse forward. This was the chance Roy had been playing for. Digging his heels into his pony’s side, he met Froud head on. There was a wild yell. The boy threw himself on one side of his saddle at the very moment that Froud fired. Roy felt his horse twitch beneath him, and knew the pony had been hit. But the horse remained on its feet. Now the boy had his own gun out, and, taking as careful aim as he could in that poor light, he fired. The cattle rustler’s face went white, and his right arm dangled helplessly. But the rustler was not beaten yet, and, in a moment, had transferred his gun from his right to his left hand. He fired again, and Roy felt a sudden sting on his left ear. The boy took aim once more, and again pulled the trigger. This time he missed completely, but Froud had had enough. Wheeling his horse about, he made off at a gallop. Roy watched him go. He could not bring himself to shoot a man in the back, and Froud probably counted on this. He also knew that Roy would not follow, for, with a wounded horse, he had small chance of catching the rustler. Roy put his hand to his ear. “Got it,” the boy said as he saw a dark stain of blood. “Go on, run, you horse thief! I’ll get you later!”