“Get up,” Reynolds ordered.  “I’m not through with you yet.”

But Curly did not move.  He lay there as if dead.  Reynolds did not know what to do, for he was unwilling to inflict further punishment upon the creature while he was down.

“Curly.”  It was Glen’s voice, and it had an ominous note.  “Get up at once, and explain the meaning of this night’s affair.  Why this insult to Mr. Reynolds?”

To this command, however, Curly paid no heed, but remained as he had fallen.  Glen’s eyes flashed with a dangerous light as she tapped impatiently with her riding-whip upon the pommel of her saddle.

“Get up,” she again ordered, “or I shall hand you over to the Indians.  They will not be so considerate of you as we are.”

As Curly still made no effort to rise, Glen uttered just two Indian words to Sconda.  The latter immediately turned and roared a command to his followers.  At once half a dozen natives sprang eagerly forward, but before they could lay hands upon him Curly was on his feet, trembling violently.  He leaped aside from the natives, his face ghastly pale.

“Keep them off!” he yelled.  “Don’t let the devils touch me!”

“I thought that would bring you somewhat to your senses,” and a smile of contempt hovered about the corners of Glen’s mouth as she spoke.  “But I mean what I say, you can be assured of that.  Tell me, now, what is the meaning of all this?  Why did you bring Mr. Reynolds here, and what were you going to do to him?”

“He murdered his pardner,” was the low reply.

Glen gave a violent start at this accusation, and looked keenly at Curly.  Her hands trembled, and it seemed to her as if her heart had stopped beating.

“Who was his partner?” she at length found voice to ask.

“Frontier Samson, of course.  He was a friend of ours, and we were about to avenge his death, when you interfered.”

“But how did you learn that Frontier Samson is dead?” Glen inquired.

“Because no one has seen him since he left camp with this guy,” and he motioned to Reynolds who was standing nearby.  “Samson hasn’t shown up at Big Draw, an’ his pardner doesn’t care to explain what happened to him.”

For a few seconds there was a dead silence, save for the crackling of the fire, and the restless movements of the horses.  Then from out of the darkness came a roar of laughter, and while all turned and stared in astonishment, Frontier Samson himself bounded into their midst and confronted Curly.

“Do I look like a dead man?” he demanded.  “D’ye think I’ve been murdered by me pardner?”

Curly’s only reply was a fearful stare as if he had seen a ghost.  He tried to speak, but words would not come.

“Frightened, are ye?” and the prospector took a step closer to the unhappy villain.  “But ye’ll be more frightened before I git through with ye, let me tell ye that.  What’s the meanin’ of sich actions?  Out with it.”