the pile in your hand, I could just fade off the map."
Blake rode on again in silence.
"All right," he said at last. "I 'm willing."
"Then how 'll you prove it? How 'd I know you 'd make good?" demanded Binhart.
"That's not up to me! You're the man that's got to make good!" was Blake's retort.
"But you 'll give me the chance?" half pleaded his prisoner.
"Sure!" replied Blake, as they rode on again. He was wondering how many more miles of hell he would have to ride through before he could rest. He felt that he would like to sleep for days, for weeks, without any thought of where to-morrow would find him or the next day would bring him.
It was late that day as they climbed up out of a steaming valley into higher ground that Binhart pulled up and studied Blake's face.
"Jim, you look like a sick man to me!" he declared. He said it without exultation; but
