Cowley sat up, fright stamped anew in his coarse features.
“Ye ain’t goin’ to let ’em have me, Mister Trooper? Fer the love of——”
“Shut up!” snapped Denis curtly. “Ballard and his friends won’t lay a finger on you, I’ll promise you that. You join your friend and fellow citizen in here, and go to sleep. I’ll attend to the rest.”
Cowley looked at him. Into the man’s rough face crept a slow gleam of admiration as he met the steady gaze of Denis.
“Mister, ye sure are some man!” he exclaimed. “Ye got me—ye got me proper, and I give ye the best I had at that. I thought I’d slide out o’ here with a good wad, but ye sure played the game hard. No, I reckon I got to take my med’cine now, and I ain’t got any kick comin’. You blasted redcoat!”
With this grudging tribute to his conqueror, Crowley lifted himself and staggered into the smaller room, sinking down beside Smoking Duck. Denis shut the door and dropped the heavy bar into place.
The clearing was still empty of life outside the shack. Sinking down on one of the two bunks, Denis rested his aching head in his hands.
“The worst of the job is done,” he thought, “unless—unless that lynching party is after gore. If they are, it looks to me as if they’ll have to get it. By Jasper, I have Cowley safe, and I mean to keep him!”
He lifted his head at sound of a distant shout. Then, picking up his Ross rifle, he laid it across his knees and waited, facing the doorway.