“Appearances are against Cleve,” growled Gulden, dubiously.  Always he had been swayed by the stronger mind of the leader.

“Sure they are,” agreed Kells.

“Then what do you base your confidence on?”

“Just my knowledge of men.  Jim Cleve wouldn’t squeal. ...  Gulden, did anybody tell you that?”

“Yes,” replied Gulden, slowly.  “Red Pearce.”

“Pearce was a liar,” said Kells, bitterly.  “I shot him for lying to me.”

Gulden stared.  His men muttered and gazed at one another and around the cabin.

“Pearce told me you set Cleve to kill me,” suddenly spoke up the giant.

If he expected to surprise Kells he utterly failed.

“That’s another and bigger lie,” replied the bandit leader, disgustedly.  “Gulden, do you think my mind’s gone?”

“Not quite,” replied Gulden, and he seemed as near a laugh as was possible for him.

“Well, I’ve enough mind left not to set a boy to kill such a man as you.”

Gulden might have been susceptible to flattery.  He turned to his men.  They, too, had felt Kells’s subtle influence.  They were ready to veer round like weather-vanes.

“Red Pearce has cashed, an’ he can’t talk for himself,” said Beady Jones, as if answering to the unspoken thought of all.

“Men, between you and me, I had more queer notions about Pearce than Cleve,” announced Gulden, gruffly.  “But I never said so because I had no proof.”

“Red shore was sore an’ strange lately,” added Chick Williams.  “Me an’ him were pretty thick once—­but not lately.”

The giant Gulden scratched his head and swore.  Probably he had no sense of justice and was merely puzzled.

“We’re wastin’ a lot of time,” put in Beard, anxiously.  “Don’t fergit there’s somethin’ comin’ off down in camp, an’ we ain’t sure what.”

“Bah!  Haven’t we heard whispers of vigilantes for a week?” queried Gulden.

Then some one of the men looked out of the door and suddenly whistled.

“Who’s thet on a hoss?”

Gulden’s gang crowded to the door.

“Thet’s Handy Oliver.”

“No!”

“Shore is.  I know him.  But it ain’t his hoss. ...  Say, he’s hurryin’.”

Low exclamations of surprise and curiosity followed.  Kells and his men looked attentively, but no one spoke.  The clatter of hoofs on the stony road told of a horse swiftly approaching—­pounding to a halt before the cabin.

“Handy! ...  Air you chased? ...  What’s wrong? ...  You shore look pale round the gills.”  These and other remarks were flung out the door.

“Where’s Kells?  Let me in,” replied Oliver, hoarsely.

The crowd jostled and split to admit the long, lean Oliver.  He stalked straight toward Kells, till the table alone stood between them.  He was gray of face, breathing hard, resolute and stern.

“Kells, I throwed—­you—­down!” he said, with outstretched hand.  It was a gesture of self-condemnation and remorse.