had intended to finish off with a short solo dance step, for it is not
every day that a man finds twenty thousand dollars in gold bars buried
in the sand.

But he changed his mind. As he let himself slowly down to his heels
there was a sardonic grin on his brown face. In outguessing Tighe he
had slipped one little mental cog, after all, and the chances were that
he would pay high for his error. A man had been lying in the mesquite
close to the creek watching him all the time. He knew it because he
had caught the flash of light on the rifle barrel that covered him.

The gold-digger beckoned with his hat as he called out. "Come right
along to the party. You're welcome as a frost in June."

A head raised itself cautiously out of the brush. "Don't you move, or
I'll plug lead into you."

"I'm hog-tied," answered Dingwell promptly. His mind worked swiftly.
The man with the drop on him was Chet Fox, a hanger-on of the
Rutherford gang, just as he had been seventeen years before when he
betrayed John Beaudry to death. Fox was shrewd and wily, but no
gunman. If Chet was alone, his prisoner did not propose to remain one.
Dave did not intend to make any fool breaks, but it would be hard luck
if he could not contrive a chance to turn the tables.

"Reach for the roof."

Dingwell obeyed orders.

Fox came forward very cautiously. Not for an instant did his beady