“And you was shot at by Peyton, he thinkin' you was an Injun in the mesquite grass? And you once shot a buffalo that had been pitched with you down a gully—all by yourself?”
“Yes,” said Clarence, crimson with wonder and pleasure. “You know me, then?”
“Well, ye-e-es,” said the man gravely, parting his mustache with his fingers. “You see, YOU'VE BEEN HERE BEFORE.”
“Before! Me?” repeated the astounded Clarence.
“Yes, before. Last night. You was taller then, and hadn't cut your hair. You cursed a good deal more than you do now. You drank a man's share of whiskey, and you borrowed fifty dollars to get to Sacramento with. I reckon you haven't got it about you now, eh?”
Clarence's brain reeled in utter confusion and hopeless terror.
Was he going crazy, or had these cruel men learned his story from his faithless friends, and this was a part of the plot? He staggered forward, but the men had risen and quickly encircled him, as if to prevent his escape. In vague and helpless desperation he gasped—
“What place is this?”
“Folks call it Deadman's Gulch.”
Deadman's Gulch! A flash of intelligence lit up the boy's blind confusion. Deadman's Gulch! Could it have been Jim Hooker who had really run away, and had taken his name? He turned half-imploringly to the first speaker.