Vaguely he had been aware already that men were running toward the tree clump.  Now he heard the padding of their feet close at hand.  He ran to the horse and flung himself into the saddle, but before the animal had moved two steps some one had it by the bridle.  Another man caught Dingwell by the arm and dragged him from the saddle.  Before Dave could scramble to his feet again, something heavy fell upon his head and shook him to the heels.  A thousand lights flashed in zigzags before his eyes.  He sank back into unconsciousness.

The cowman returned to a world of darkness out of which voices came as from a distance hazily.  A groan prefaced his arrival.

“Dave’s waking up,” one of the far voices said.

“Sure.  When you tap his haid with a six-gun, you’re liable to need repairs on the gun,” a second answered.

The next words came to Dingwell more distinctly.  He recognized the speaker as Hal Rutherford of the horse ranch.

“Too bad the boy had to hand you that crack, Dave.  You’re such a bear for fighting a man can’t take any chances.  Glad he didn’t bust your haid wide open.”

“Sure he didn’t?” asked the injured man.  “I feel like I got to hold it on tight so as to keep the blamed thing from flying into fifty pieces.”

“Sorry.  We’ll take you to a doc and have it fixed up.  Then we’ll all go have a drunk.  That’ll fix you.”

“Business first,” cut in Buck Rutherford.

“That’s right, Dave,” agreed the owner of the horse ranch.  “How about that gunnysack?  Where did you hide it?”

Dingwell played for time.  He had not the least intention of telling, but if he held the enemy in parley some of his friends might pass that way.

“What gunnysack, Hal?  Jee-rusalem, how my head aches!” He held his hands to his temples and groaned again.

“Your head will mend—­if we don’t have to give it another crack,” Buck told him grimly.  “Get busy, Dave.  We want that gold—­pronto.  Where did you put it?”

“Where did I put it?  That willing lad of yours has plumb knocked the answer out of my noodle.  Maybe you’re thinking of some one else, Buck.”  Dingwell looked up at him with an innocent, bland smile.

“Come through,” ordered Buck with an oath.

The cattleman treated them to another dismal groan.  “Gee!  I feel like the day after Christmas.  Was it a cannon the kid hit me with?”

Meldrum pushed his ugly phiz to the front.  “Don’t monkey away any time, boys.  String him to one of these cottonwoods till he spits out what we want.”

“Was it while you was visiting up at Santa Fe you learnt that habit of seeing yore neighbors hanged, Dan?” drawled Dingwell in a voice of gentle irony.

Furious at this cool reference to his penitentiary days, Meldrum kicked their captive in the ribs.  Hal Rutherford, his eyes blazing, caught the former convict by the throat.