If Patches had paused to think, he likely would have disdained to play the part of a hidden spy; but he had acted without thinking, and no sooner was he concealed than he realized that it was too late.  So he smiled mockingly at himself, and awaited developments.  He had heard and seen enough, since he had been in the Dean’s employ, to understand the suspicion in which the owner of the Four-Bar-M iron was held; and from even his few days’ work on the range in company with Phil, he had come to understand how difficult it was for the cattlemen to prove anything against the man who they had every reason to believe was stealing their stock.  It was the possibility of getting some positive evidence, and of thus protecting his employer’s property, that had really prompted him to take advantage of the chance situation.

As the two men appeared, it was clear to the hidden observer that the weakling had in some way incurred his master’s displeasure.  The big man’s face was red with anger, and his eyes were hard and cruel, while Joe had more than aver the look of a lost dog that expects nothing less than a curse and a kick.

Nick drank at the spring, then turned back to his companion, who had not dismounted, but sat on his horse cringing and frightened, trying, with fluttering fingers, to roll a cigarette.  A moment the big man surveyed his trembling follower; then, taking a heavy quirt from his saddle, he said with a contemptuous sneer, “Well, why don’t you get your drink?”

“I ain’t thirsty, Nick,” faltered the other.

“You ain’t thirsty?” mocked the man with a jeering laugh.  “You’re lying, an’ you know it.  Get down!”

“Hones’ to God, Nick, I don’t want no drink,” whimpered Joe, as his master toyed with the quirt suggestively.

“Get down, I tell you!” commanded the big man.

Joe obeyed, his thin form shaking with fear, and stood shrinking against his horse’s side, his fearful eyes fixed on the man.

“Now, come here.”

“Don’t, Nick; for God’s sake! don’t hit me.  I didn’t mean no harm.  Let me off this time, won’t you, Nick?”

“Come here.  You got it comin’, damn you, an’ you know it.  Come here, I say!”

As if it were beyond his power to refuse, the wretched creature took a halting step or two toward the man whose brutal will dominated him; then he paused and half turned, as if to attempt escape.  But that menacing voice stopped him.

“Come here!”

Whimpering and begging, with disconnected, unintelligible words, the poor fellow again started toward the man with the quirt.

At the critical moment a quiet, well-schooled voice interrupted the scene.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Cambert!”

Nick whirled with an oath of surprise and astonishment, to face Patches, who was coming leisurely toward him from the bushes above the spring.

“What are you doin’ here?” demanded Nick, while his victim slunk back to his horse, his eyes fixed upon the intruder with dumb amazement.