“Hyar it is--thar,” said Bill. “Look on my hand.... Blood! I knowed it. Bud got him, all right.” There was a sudden rustling such as might come from a quick, strained movement. “Buell,” cried Dick Leslie, in piercing tones, “Heaven help you murdering thieves if that boy's killed! I'll see you strung up right in this forest. Ken, speak! Speak!” It seemed then, in my pain and bitterness, that I would rather let Buell think me dead. Dick's voice went straight to my heart, but I made no answer. “Leslie, I didn't kill him, an' I didn't order it,” said Buell, in a voice strangely shrunk and shaken. “I meant no harm to the lad.... Go up, Bud, an' get him.” Bud made no move, nor did Greaser when he was ordered. “Go up, somebody, an' see what's up there!” shouted Buell. “Strikes me you might go yourself,” said Bill, coolly. With a growl Buell mounted the ladder. When his great shock head hove in sight I was seized by a mad desire to give him a little of his own medicine. With both hands I lifted the piece of pine branch and brought it down with every ounce of strength in me. Like a pistol it cracked on Buell's head and snapped into bits. The lumberman gave a smothered groan, then clattered down the ladder and rolled on the floor. There he lay quiet. “All-fired dead--thet kid--now, ain't he?” said Bud, sarcastically. “How'd you like thet crack on the knob? You'll need a larger size hat, mebbe. Herky-Jerky, you go up an' see what's up there.” “I've a picture of myself goin',” replied Herky, without moving. “Whar's the water? Get some water, Greaser,” chimed in Bill. From the way they worked over Buell, I concluded he had been pretty badly stunned. But he came to presently. “What struck me?” he asked. “Oh, nothin',” replied Bud, derisively. “The loft up thar's full of air, an' it blowed on you, thet's all.” Buell got up, and began walking around. “Bill, go out an' fetch in some long poles,” he said. When Bill returned with a number of sharp, bayonet-like pikes I knew the game was all up for me. Several of the men began to prod through the thin covering of dry brush. One of them reached me, and struck so hard that I lurched violently. That was too much for the rickety loft floor. It was only a bit of brush laid on a netting of slender poles. It creaked, rasped, and went down with a crash. I alighted upon somebody, and knocked him to the floor. Whoever it was, seized me with iron hands. I was buried, almost smothered, in the dusty mass. My captor began to curse cheerfully, and I knew then that Herky-Jerky had made me a prisoner. XV. THE FIGHT Herky hauled me out of the brush, and held me in the light. The others scrambled from under the remains of the loft, and all viewed me curiously. “Kid, you ain't hurt much?” queried Buell, with concern. I would have snapped out a reply, but I caught sight of Dick's pale face and anxious eyes.