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“I’m no horse thief,” said Dunbar, “and Red Steve talks crooked. He’s working for Benner, and Phelps, and the rest of those cattle barons on the Brazos. It’s tin-horn work, too, and Red has to use the double tongue.”

“I thought there was something more than just common incivility back of his treatment of me,” observed the scout, a glitter rising in the eyes that looked across the revolver sights. “Don’t you try to talk!” he said sternly to the man in front of him. “Walk around and take the ropes off Dunbar. When I count ‘one,’ you’ll begin to move; when I say ‘two,’ you’ll begin on the ropes; and when I finish with ‘three,’ if Dunbar isn’t clear of his bonds, I’ll do something more than singe your ear and take a lock of your red hair. Chance, it seems, has bobbled, and dropped me into the right place at just about the right time. Now, then, one!”

There was that in the scout’s eyes and manner which caused Red Steve to start promptly toward the other side of the dugout. As he moved, the scout turned on the stool and let the revolver follow him.