voice. And, turning toward him, Andrew saw him in profile with the scar obscured—and his face was of almost feminine refinement.
Five thousand dollars?
A dozen rich men in the mountain desert would each pay more than that for the apprehension of Allister, dead or alive. And bitterly it came over Andrew that this genius of crime, this heartless murderer as story depicted him, was no danger to him but almost a friend. And the other four ruffians of Allister's band were smiling cordially at him, enjoying his astonishment. The day before his hair would have turned white in such a place among such men; to-night they were his friends.
"Gentlemen," said Andrew, "I'm glad to meet you."
A chorus boomed back at him; he made out the different voices; even the savage Larry la Roche was smiling. "Well, kid, this is one on you." "Sit down and tell us about it." "So you bumped off Bill Dozier—the skunk?" "Hang up your hat and make yourself to home." "You can share my bunk."
Tears came to Andrew's eyes, but he winked them away.
