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That was Billy Winch, lopsided and cock-sure in the saddle, the chosen messenger of his impudent, reckless chief.

Winch flung out his arm. In the dark they could have made nothing of the gesture had it not been for the sudden sibilant hiss of the rope, swung by an iron wrist, cutting through the air. The noose fell with absolute exactness; Winch was not ten steps away and the rope thrown so unerringly settled about Babe Deveril's shoulders and with a quick jerk grew so tight that it cut into the flesh. On the instant the two men with Winch left their saddles and struck earth, both on the run forward. And, while Lynette Brooke thought with horror to see sudden death dealt, they threw themselves upon the man already fighting against the imprisonment of thirty feet of hemp.

She had never seen men battle as now these three battled while Billy Winch sitting back in his saddle with his rope drawn tight, watched and laughed and cried out in broken phrases expressing his satisfaction with the situation. Babe Deveril, roped as he was, gave her such proof of prowess as to make her admiration for the physical perfection of him leap high. She, too, cried out brokenly; she wanted to see him win against these unfair odds. But the men clung on and Billy Winch sat laughing and tautening his rope; blows and curses and throaty growls, the whole thing lasted not half a minute. Babe Deveril was down, mastered by three men.