“I’m going to turn you loose to go home to the hills,” Weaver told him.

“And my sister?”

“She stays here.”

“Then so do I.”

“That’s up to you.  There’s no law against camping on the plains—­that is, out of range of the Twin Star.”

“What are you going to do with her?” the boy demanded ominously.

“If you ask no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.”

“You’ll let her go home with me—­that’s what you’ll do,” cried Phil.

“I reckon not.  You’ve got a license to feel lucky you’re going yourself.”

“By God, I say you shall!”

The cattleman’s eyes took on their stony, snake-like look.  His hand did not move by so much as an inch toward the scabbarded revolver at his side.

“All right.  Come a-shooting.  I see you’ve got a gun under that pillow.”

The weapon leaped into sight.  “You’re right I have!  I’ll drill you full of holes as soon as wink.”

Weaver laughed contemptuously.  “Begin pumping, son.”

“I’m going to take my sister home with me.  You’ll give orders to your men to that effect.”

“Guess again.”

“I tell you I’ll shoot your hide full of holes if you don’t!” cried the excited boy.

“Oh, no, you won’t.”

Buck Weaver was flirting with death, and he knew it.  The very breath of it fanned his cheek.  During that moment he lived gloriously; for he was a man who revelled in his sensations.  He laughed into the very muzzle of the six-shooter that covered him.

“Quit your play acting, boy,” he jeered.

“I give you one more chance before I blow out your brains.”

The cattleman put his unwounded hand into his trousers pocket and lounged forward, thrusting his smiling face against the cold rim of the blue barrel.

“I reckon you’ll scatter proper what few brains I’ve got.”

With a curse, the boy flung the weapon down on the bed.  He could not possibly kill a man so willing as this.  To draw guns with him, and chance the issue, would have suited young Sanderson exactly.  But this way would be no less than murder.

“You devil!” he cried, with a boyish sob.

Weaver picked up the revolver, and examined it.  “Mighty careless of Ned to leave it lying around this way,” he commented absently, as if unaware of the other’s rage.  “You never can tell when a gun is going to get into the wrong hands.”

“What are you letting me go for?  You’ve got a reason.  What is it?” Phil demanded.

Weaver looked at him through narrowed, daredevil eyes.  “The ransom price has been paid,” he explained.

“Paid!  Who paid it?”

“Miss Phyllis Sanderson.”

“Phyllis?” repeated the boy incredulously.  “But she had no money.”

“Did I say she paid it in money?”

“What do you mean?”

“She asked me to set you free.  I named my price, and she agreed.”