“Feel kind o’ wobbly, eh?” he jeered.  “Got a bad little hangover from last night?  Perhaps we were a little playful, but it’s just our hearty way of welcomin’ strangers.  ’Specially when they come without an invitation and we ketches them peepin’ through the winders.  But we don’t mean no harm, do we, Red?” and he leered at his companion, who grinned dutifully in response to his leader’s humor.

Bert made no answer.

“Now look here, young feller,” snapped the speaker, dropping his elaborate sarcasm and veering round to his natural ferocity, “you ain’t tongue-tied, I reckon, and I want to know right quick, pronto, what you’re doin’ round these diggin’s, anyhow.  One of our men comin’ in from the stables caught you spyin’ through the winder.  He gave yer one on the nob, and dragged yer in here.  Now, who are yer, where do yer come from and what are yer doin’ in these parts.  Speak quick now, or by——­” and he broke into a torrent of vile oaths and death-dealing threats, while he fingered nervously the knife that hung in his belt.

Before Bert could reply one of the band entered the room.  He glanced at the prisoner, and a sudden recognition leaped to his eyes.

“I know that feller,” he exclaimed excitedly, turning to his chief.  “I couldn’t just place him last night when his eyes was shut, but now I’m plumb sure of him.  He’s livin’ over to the Melton ranch with a couple of pals of his’n.  Seen him there more than once.  Ain’t that straight?” to Bert.

“Yes,” said Bert boldly, “that’s straight.”

The man’s identification was absolute and the time for silence or evasion was past.  He was trapped and absolutely in their power.  That they would kill him he had little doubt.  A life more or less meant little to these ruthless scoundrels.  But if he had to meet death, he would meet it unafraid.

The name of the ranch owner acted on the chief like an electric shock.  He leaped to his feet with a curse.

“So Melton sent you to spy on us, did he?” he demanded furiously.

“He did not,” answered Bert.

There was a conviction in the tone that checked the headlong rush that the captain had seemed about to make.  He sat down again and pondered, his face working with rage and apprehension.  At last he reached a decision, and Bert read in his eyes that his doom had been pronounced.

“It don’t make no difference whether yer tellin’ the truth or lyin’,” he snarled.  “Ye’ve learned too much fur me to let yer live.  If I turned yer loose, ye’d have Melton and his bunch down on us in no time.  Keep a close watch on him, Red,” he commanded as he rose to his feet.  “I’ve got some things to look after that’ll keep me busy till dinner-time, and after that we’ll put this maverick where he won’t do no more spyin’.”

“How about breakfast?” asked Bert coolly.  “You’re not going to starve me to death, are you?”

The outlaw looked at him with astonishment, not unmixed with a sort of grudging admiration.