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The thing was horribly unthinkable. The warm mellow afternoon

sunshine wrapped them about. The horses grazed with quiet

unconcern. One of these hard-faced frontiersmen was chewing

tobacco with machine-like regularity. Another was rolling a

cigarette. There was nothing of dramatic effect. Not a man had

raised his voice. But Neill knew there was no appeal. He had come

to the end of the passage through a horrible mistake. He raged in

bitter resentment against his fate, against these men who stood

so quietly about him ready to execute it, most of all against the

girl who had let him sacrifice himself by concealing the vital

fact that her brother had murdered a guard to effect his escape.

Fool that he had been, he had stumbled into a trap, and she had

let him do it without a word of warning. Wild, chaotic thoughts

crowded his brain furiously.

But the voice with which he addressed them was singularly even

and colorless.