Ty Jones had been as wise as a fox when he located his ranch house. It sat on high ground, while back of it rose a cliff; so ’at the only way you could get to it without ropes from the back, was through the little ravine. The cliffs circled around to the crick on both sides, and the crick was so full o’ rocks that the’ was only two places a hoss could cross. He had strung barb wire through the cottonwoods in a regular tangle along the crick, and the only places he had to watch in case of an attack, were the ravine and these two fords. He could see for miles in all directions by goin’ to the head o’ the ravine; and you could hardly pick out a purtier place for a last-stand ’n the one he had selected.

The new cabin for the woman was right in front o’ the mouth o’ the ravine, the old cabin a hundred yards or so farther on, the cook-house and the Chink’s quarters to the north o’ this, the mess-hall for the men to the east of this, the barn, wagon-sheds, workshop, and so on, some distance to the south, and the bunk-shack a little to the north of the stables. He had several corrals back o’ the barn and a pasture of about thirty acres shut in by a wire fence.

After I had cooled off a little, I saw that the Friar was right. The thing we couldn’t tell was, just how much they had forced Promotheus to confess. If they had simply got Ty jealous that he was tryin’ to get the woman away, we might make it all the worse by chargin’ down on ’em; while on the other hand he might have told where we were, and Ty might take it into his head to try to get us all. This last would have been the finest thing ’at could happen to us; but the’ was no way to tell; so after eatin’ supper, we went down to the edge o’ the cliff to see what we could see.

We were most of us surprised to see how far the cabin stood from the cliff. In lookin’ down from our look-out, we had failed to take the slope into account so it had looked as though we had been able to see the woman the minute she had come out o’ the mouth of the ravine, while the fact was the cabin stood several hundred feet from the mouth. If it hadn’t been for the confounded dogs, we could have gone down and found out what we wanted to know. We made some remarks about those dogs which would have seared their hair off if they’d ’a’ been a little closer.

The light was kept in the mess-hall long after time to finish eatin’; and we guessed they were tryin’ Promotheus, right while we were lookin’ on from above. All of a sudden, Olaf struck his palm with his fist, and exclaimed: “What a fool I have been! Those dogs remembered Promotheus, and he never patted ’em. I have patted ’em and spoke soothin’ words to ’em, and they would know me. I shall go down and listen.”

Now this was a noble thought and we hadn’t a word to say again’ it; so Olaf went back to camp, shed his boots and put on moccasins. Slim was a good shot with a rifle, so he staid with Horace, who had an elephant gun and a yearnin’ to use it, up on the cliff above the mouth o’ the ravine. They had seven rifles of one kind and another, and they thought they could make a disturbance if Olaf started anything. The rest of us went down the ravine to the last curve. We tried to get the Friar to stay behind; but his blood was up, and he wouldn’t heed us. We had it made up to rope and tie him hand and foot, when we were finally ready to wind things up with Ty Jones.

Olaf left us with his big, hard face set into rigid lines. He had a long score to settle with Ty Jones, and he had made a funny gruntin’ hum in his throat every few steps as we had walked down the ravine. We waited what seemed weeks; but the’ was no uproar, and finally, he came out o’ the gloom, and spoke to us in a whisper. We went back with him to the top o’ the path before he told us what he had heard.

He said they were tryin’ to make Promotheus confess who was back of him; but that Promotheus had steadily refused. He said ’at Ty had told him over and over that if he would tell him where he could lay hands on either the Friar or Dinky Bradford, he would give him a month to get out o’ the country himself; but Promotheus had stood firm, and they had shut him up in the workshop again, tellin’ him he would get nothin’ but water until he did confess.

This made us some easier in our minds. Promotheus had acted so worn out and done up since his return, that he had fooled Ty; and Ty looked upon him as a broke-down man, and nothin’ but a tool in the hands of some stronger men. Olaf said ’at Ty acted as though he thought the Friar had sent in a report to the government, and had got Bradford to come out here the time that Promotheus had disappeared; and in some way they had got word o’ Horace comin’ through Bosco this last time. Dixon had told about seein’ us at Skelty’s, and a strange feller told about bein’ shot at, the night Olaf’s cabin had been fired. They bunched all this together, and decided ’at the best thing to do was to trade Promotheus for Horace or the Friar, if it could be done. I had a chuckle all to myself, when I pictured Horace as he had been when I took him in hand, and now with the reputation he hadn’t quite earned, bein’ a worry to the Ty Jones outfit.

“I allus said they were cowards,” sez Horace, as soon as Olaf had finished his tale. “A man’s got an imagination, and as soon as he starts to live like a wolf, this imagination fills the world with watchdogs. Ty Jones never has fought in the open, and we’ll have no trouble with him as soon as we once get him on the run.”

“Ty Jones has no fear,” sez Olaf. “I know; I have seen with my own eyes. He is too clever to be trapped; but he has no fear.”

“Well, wait and see,” sez Horace.

Me and Tank kept watch on the cliff until mornin’ and then as nothin’ had happened, we went up to camp, and Slim and Dutch took watch at our regular look-out. As we sat down to breakfast, we noticed ’at the Friar was gone. Several spoke of him havin’ been restless the night before and not turnin’ in when the rest did. The Friar allus was unregular in his habits, especially at night; so we didn’t pay much heed to him when he wrote by the fire, or went off by himself in the quiet starlight, to sing some o’ the pressure off his heart; but at such a time as this, we anticipated him to be as circumspect as possible.

We started to hunt him up, but it didn’t take long. Horace found a note pinned to the Friar’s tarp, and the note told us that he had thought it all over careful durin’ the night, and had decided that his duty compelled him to go down and offer himself in exchange for Promotheus. He said that when things came to such a tangle that no human ingenuity could unmix ’em, it was time to put trust in a higher power; that it was for him that Promotheus had risked his life, and that he felt he must take his place, as Ty had promised to let Promotheus go if he would betray him. He said that he could not see any way to help the woman, and that if he lost his life, for us not to think of revenge, as it would all turn out for the best in some mysterious way. The Friar had gone through a lot durin’ the last few years, and it had finally undermined his patience. I knew just how he felt: he wanted something to happen which would end his suspense, and he didn’t care much what it was.

As soon as Horace had finished readin’; we all sat around in complete silence, gawkin’ at each other. “Things has finally come to a head,” sez Spider Kelley, solemnly.

“There now, that’s the Christian religion!” exclaimed Horace. “The Christian religion is founded on self-sacrifice and martyrdom, and all those who get it bad enough spend the bulk o’ their time on the lookout to be martyrs and sacrifice theirselves for something—and they don’t care much what for. Look at the crusades—the flower o’ Europe was lured into the desert and dumped there like worn-out junk, even children were offered up in this sacrifice. Nothing but sentimentality, rank sentimentality. Now, when the ancient Greeks—”

“The thing for us, is to decide on what we’re to do next, not what the ancient Greeks did a few thousand years before we were born,” sez I. “There is no use hidin’ any longer. The strongest card we have up our sleeve is the fake reputation of Dinky Bradford, and what we must do is to make up the best plan to play it.”

“Why do you say fake reputation?” demanded Horace.

“Well, you’re not a government agent, are ya?” I asked.

“No,” sez he; “but at the same time—”

“I didn’t say ’at you was a fake, Horace,” sez I in a soothin’ voice. “I merely intimated that the things Ty Jones most fears about you are the things which were not so.”

“I see what you mean,” sez Horace, “and it’s all right. What’s your plan?”

“Well, as soon as we are sure ’at the Friar has reached Ty’s,” sez I, “we’ll send Ty word to deliver him back at once, and to appoint a meetin’ place to explain things to us. Not make any threats nor bluffs nor nothin’. Just a plain, simple statement of what we want done, and sign your name to it.”

“I think it would be better to tell him we had his place surrounded,” said Horace.

“Nope,” said I, “your old theory is best: let their imaginations supply the details. If we put the government into their minds too strong, they’re likely to find some way to deliver Promotheus over to the law. I have a sort of impediment that The was a little rough with an officer or two, after he deserted, and Ty knows all about him.”

“How the deuce will we get word to Ty?” sez Horace. “As fast as we’d send messengers, Ty would shut ’em up.”

“One thing is certain, at least,” sez I. “Ty won’t string ’em up as long as he knows he’s bein’ watched. And another thing is, that all of Ty’s men are wanted for one thing or another, and the longer we keep ’em in suspense, the sooner they’ll weaken. We ought to send word to the Simpson boys. They are at least two to one again’ us as we stand now.”

Just at this junction, Slim arrived with the news that the Friar was ridin’ up to the ford. I was purty sure ’at he wouldn’t go down by the ravine. The Friar might lack judgment in certain matters; but you could count on him lookin’ out for his friends, every time.

We hustled down to the look-out, and saw the Friar ride out into the open, and hail the house. In a minute the’ was a crowd about him and they pulled him from his hoss and dragged him toward the mess-hall, actin’ mighty jubilant. The dogs raised a consid’able fuss; but they didn’t let any of ’em get to the Friar this time. I don’t know whether they were tryin’ to save the Friar or the dogs.

They took the Friar into the mess-hall, and kept him there a good long time; but I felt sure he wouldn’t tell more ’n he wanted to. Then they brought him out and shut him up in the workshop with Promotheus.

“You don’t see ’em turnin’ Promotheus loose, do ya?” sez ol’ Tank.

“Ty Jones would cheat himself playin’ solitaire,” sez Spider Kelley.

“He didn’t agree to turn Promotheus loose if the Friar surrendered,” sez Olaf. “He only said he would if Promotheus enticed the Friar into a trap.”

Ty Jones certainly did have what ya call personal magnetism. His men stuck up for him, even when they was willin’ to help snuff him out.

We sent Oscar over to get the Simpson boys; and then we made our plans. The’ was no way to get to our camp from above, and we could easy guard the two trails ’at led up from below. Nothin’ would have suited us better ’n to have Ty decide to come and get us; so we told Oscar to make all the fuss he wanted when he came back.

Nothin’ happened down at the ranch that day. The woman drifted about, the same as usual, not seemin’ to observe ’at the’ was anything different from ordinary, and the punchers all stayed in sight. A few of ’em rode up to high spots across the crick and took gappin’s, and a couple of ’em came up the ravine and examined the ground on top; but they didn’t seem to find anything to interest ’em.

That night Horace wrote an order on Ty Jones to release the Friar—we had decided not to mention Promotheus—and Olaf started down with the message. We posted ourselves the same as we had done before; and after about an hour, Olaf returned.

He said he had examined the workshop, which was of logs, the same as the rest o’ the buildin’s, and had heard the Friar and Promotheus talkin’; but hadn’t ventured to say anything for fear they were watched. He said ’at the Friar was holdin’ out on the value o’ fastin’; while Promotheus was speakin’ in defence of ham an’ eggs. Then he said he had crept up to the front door of the old cabin, and had fastened up the order with a dagger.

Olaf looked to me as though he had been enjoyin’ himself a little more ’n his tale gave reason for; so I pressed him, and finally he admitted that there had been a man on watch at the mouth o’ the ravine. He said he had wriggled through it on his belly, thinkin’ it too good a place to be overlooked since the Friar had put ’em on their guard; and after lyin’ still a moment, he had heard the man move. He said he had snaked up to him, and had got him by the throat. He said he thought it was Dixon because the’ was so much throat to get hold of. Dixon had been perfectly resigned to havin’ Olaf lynched that time and Olaf’s memory was not o’ the leaky kind.

“What became of him, Olaf?” I asked.

“Oh, he fought some,” said Olaf.

“Did he get away?” I asked.

“Un, yes—yes he got away,” sez Olaf.

“Where did he go to?” sez I.

“I think he went down—way down,” sez Olaf.

“Down where?” sez I. “Why don’t you tell us what happened to him?”

Olaf looked down at his right hand. It didn’t resemble a hand much; but it would ’a’ been a handy tool to use in maulin’ wedges into a log. “Why,” sez he, “he wriggled about, and started to squeak; and when I squeezed in on his neck to shut off the squeak, why his neck broke. It was too thin to be stout.”

I held out my hand. “Olaf,” I sez, “I want to shake the hand that shook his neck.”

“Yes,” sez Tank, “and by dad, so do I!” Tank’s leg was still tender.