"The man with the dough is Whispering Smith every time," was the answer from Smith himself. "You have about seven years to serve, Rockstro, haven't you? Seven, I think. Now what have I ever done to you that you should turn a trick like this on me? I knew you were here, and you knew I knew you were here, and I call this a pretty country; a little smooth right around here, like the people, but pretty. Have I ever bothered you? Now tell me one thing--what did you get for covering this trail? I stand to give you two dollars for every one you got last night for the job, if you'll put us right on the game. Which way did they go?" "What are you talking about?" "Get off your horse a minute," suggested Whispering Smith, dismounting, "and step over here toward the creek." The man, afraid to refuse and unwilling to go, walked haltingly after Smith. "What is it, Rockstro?" asked his tormentor. "Don't you like this country? What do you want to go back to the penitentiary for? Aren't you happy here? Now tell me one thing--will you give up the trail?" "I don't know the trail." "I believe you; we shouldn't follow it anyway. Were you paid last night or this morning?" "I ain't seen a man hereabouts for a week." "Then you can't tell me whether there were five men or six?" "You've got one eye as good as mine, and one a whole lot better." "So it was fixed up for cash a week ago?" "Everything is cash in this country." "Well, Rockstro, I'm sorry, but we'll have to take you back with us." The rancher whipped out a revolver. Whispering Smith caught his wrist. The struggle lasted only an instant. Rockstro writhed, and the pistol fell to the ground. "Now, shall I break your arm?" asked Smith, as the man cursed and resisted. "Or will you behave? We are going right back and you'll have to come with us. We'll send some one down to round up your horses and sell them, and you can serve out your time--with allowances, of course, for good conduct, which will cut it down. If I had ever done you a mean turn I would not say a word. If you could name a friend of yours I had ever done a mean turn to I would not say a word. Can you name one? I guess not. I have left you as free as the wind here, making only the rule I make for everybody--to let the railroad alone. This is my thanks. Now, I'll ask you just one question. I haven't killed you, as I had a perfect right to when you pulled; I haven't broken your arm, as I would have done if there had been a doctor within twenty-five miles; and I haven't started you for the pen--not yet. Now I ask you one fair question only: Did you need the money?" "Yes, I did need it." Whispering Smith dropped the man's wrist. "Then I don't say a word. If you needed the money, I'm not going to send you back--not for mine." "How can a man make a living in this country," asked the rancher, with a bitter oath, "unless he picks up everything that's going?" "Pick up your gun, man! I'm not saying anything, am I?"