"Sssssh!" whispered the guard. "Here comes some of the gang."
Kurt heard low voices and soft footfalls. Some dark forms loomed up.
"Bradford, has he come to yet?" queried the brutal voice of Glidden.
"Nope," replied the guard. "I guess he had a hard knock. He's never budged."
"We've got to beat it out of here," said Glidden. "It's long after midnight. There's a freight-train down the track. I want all the gang to board it. You run along, Bradford, and catch up with the others."
"What're you going to do with this young fellow?" queried Bradford, curiously.
"That's none of your business," returned Glidden.
"Maybe not. But I reckon I'll ask, anyhow. You want me to join your I.W.W., and I'm asking questions. Labor strikes—standing up for your rights—is one thing, and burning wheat or slugging young farmers is another. Are you going to let this Dorn go?"
Kurt could plainly see the group of five men, Bradford standing over the smaller Glidden, and the others strung and silent in the intensity of the moment.
"I'll cut his throat," hissed Glidden.