"I'm takin' 'm up for the boss to 'Frisco. A crack dog-doctor
there thinks that he can cure 'm."

Concerning that night's ride, the man spoke most eloquently for
himself, in a little shed back of a saloon on the San Francisco
water front.

"All I get is fifty for it," he grumbled; "an' I wouldn't do it
over for a thousand, cold cash."

His hand was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief, and the right
trouser leg was ripped from knee to ankle.

"How much did the other mug get?" the saloon-keeper demanded.

"A hundred," was the reply. "Wouldn't take a sou less, so help
me."

"That makes a hundred and fifty," the saloon-keeper calculated;
"and he's worth it, or I'm a squarehead."

The kidnapper undid the bloody wrappings and looked at his
lacerated hand. "If I don't get the hydrophoby--"

"It'll be because you was born to hang," laughed the saloon-
keeper. "Here, lend me a hand before you pull your freight," he
added.

Dazed, suffering intolerable pain from throat and tongue, with the
life half throttled out of him, Buck attempted to face his