“We'll risk it,” laughed one brutally. “Bring that riata, Tom.”
Neill did not struggle or cry out frantically. He stood motionless while they adjusted the rope round his bronzed throat. They had judged him for a villain; they should at least know him a man. So he stood there straight and lithe, wide-shouldered and lean-flanked, a man in a thousand. Not a twitch of the well-packed muscles, not a quiver of the eyelash nor a swelling of the throat betrayed any fear. His cool eyes were quiet and steady.
“If you want to leave any message for anybody I'll see it's delivered,” promised Duffield.
“I'll not trouble you with any.”
“Just as you like.”
“He didn't give poor Dave any time for messages,” cried Tom Long bitterly.
“That's right,” assented another with a curse.
It was plain to the victim they were spurring their nerves to hardihood.
“Who's that?” cried one of the men, pointing to a rider galloping toward them.
The newcomer approached rapidly, covered by their weapons, and flung himself from his pony as he dragged it to a halt beside the group.