When a halt was made Deadly Dan found himself before two horses that stood in the shadow of the gulch walls. “One moment, boy,” said Dan, turning to the strange youth. “I want to know what this means? Tell Deadly Dan what you are going to do with him. I’m the Wolf of the Rosebud again. I can hear anything.” A smile flitted across the boy’s handsome countenance, and he answered by thrusting a card into the Sport’s hand. Dan glanced at it curiously, and threw himself back in the saddle until his body was in the moonlight. Then, holding the card before his eager eyes, he read-- “JUDGE LYNCH, JR. “Court always in session,” etc., etc. The boy and Indian watched him narrowly, but they saw no quivering of the lips as he turned to the former-- “Well, what of it?” asked Deadly Dan. “Yes, boy, what do I care for the rigmarole on this card? You are the self-instituted Judge Lynch, I suppose.” “Judge Lynch, at your service,” said the boy, doffing his hat with mock politeness. “And I have the honour of informing you, Rosebud Dan, that my court is about to hold a night session.” Before the Sport could reply, the horses started forward, and a moment after the party went through the little gulch. Red Crest, the Sioux, with his hand at Deadly Dan’s bridle, trotted tirelessly at the head of his steed. CHAPTER II. Having made up his mind, Old Jack went to each horse and patted his strong neck affectionately. They had been fast friends as beast and master, and there was a warm corner in the old man’s heart for each. He had just unharnessed them from the stage in which he had carried Deadly Dan to Custer City. He felt that his time had come, as he left Custer and urged his horse toward Cut-throat Canyon. He had long believed, in secret, that his old pard, Tom Terror, was the leader of the Thugs that infested the famous pass; he was confident of it now, and it would be safe to say that, as he rode along, his neck did not itch as formerly. Three hours had scarcely passed since his encounter with Tom, therefore he expected to find him near the spot where he had stopped the stage. Whatever the feeling of security that quieted the deserter’s spirits, he drew his pistols as his horse entered the shades of Cut-throat, and then, applying the heavy Mexican spurs which he had strapped to his heels, he went down the canyon like a fugitive from justice. “Hyar I am, but no Tom,” he said, drawing rein on the spot where he had had his adventure with the Gulch Tiger. “Hyar’s whar he told me about the bonanza thet beats the Emma King, an’ thar is whar I stood on the tongue an’ listened till I saw Old Jack drivin’ a golden carriage through the streets ov ’Frisco. Why didn’t you wait hyar fur me, Tom? You might hev knowed thet I’d come back jist as quick as I could unhitch, an’ say goodbye to the hosses. Tom, pard, whar ar’ ye?” He had mentally resolved to go back to his horses when a sound that made him turn, saluted his ears.