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Briscoe gave way to one of the swift bursts of passion to which

he was subject. "Don't threaten me, you prison scum! Don't come

here and try to dictate what I'm to do, and what I'm not to do.

I'll sell you if I want to. I'll send you back to be hanged like

a dog. Say the word, and I'll have you dragged out of here inside

of forty-eight hours."

Struve reached for his gun, but the other, wary as a panther, had

him covered while the convict's revolver was still in his pocket.

"Reach for the roof! Quick--or I'll drill a hole in you! That's

the idea. I reckon I'll collect your hardware while I'm at it.

That's a heap better."

Struve glared at him, speechless.

"You're too slow on the draw for this part of the country, my

friend," jeered Briscoe. "Or perhaps, while you were at Yuma, you

got out of practice. It's like stealing candy from a kid to beat

you to it. Don't ever try to draw a gun again in Lost Valley

while you're asleep. You might never waken."