An angry exclamation escaped the lips of the mountaineer.
"I reckon they're no friends of mine. I reckon, too, that you'll be answering my questions or you'll be hiking for the Happy Hunting Grounds in about ten minutes from now. I haven't got all night to sit here talking with you. I've got to git through with you; then I'm going to finish the rest of your crowd. You fellows thought you'd play a sharp trick on me, eh?"
"You are mistaken. We did not even know of your existence until you began shooting at us. Why did you do that?"
"If you don't know, I reckon you'll have to guess. Bill McKay must think we're easy down here, to try a game like that."
"I'll tell him when I see him," nodded Ned.
"I reckon you won't see him right smart. When I git through with you I'm going to send a bullet through your head. Maybe they'll find you here. If they do they'll know what it means, I reckon."
Ned's face paled slightly. There was that in the eyes of the man before him which, all at once, told Ned Rector that the fellow meant what he said.
"Who do you think we are?" demanded the boy earnestly.
"You're part of the Ranger gang."
"The what?"