The Sheriff's Son
Meldrum wheedled. "I did n't go for to hurt Miss Rutherford any. Did n't I tell you I was drunk?"
"Dead or alive, you 're going into that prospect hole. Make up your mind to that."
The bad man moistened his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. He stole one furtive glance around. Could he gun this man and make his getaway?
"Are any of the Rutherfords back of that clump of aspens?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
"Yes."
"Do … do they know I'm here?"
"Not yet."
Tiny beads of sweat stood out on the blotched face of the rustler. He was trapped. Even if he fired through the leather holster and killed Beaudry, there would be no escape for him on his tired horse.
"Gimme a chanc't," he pleaded desperately. "Honest to God, I 'll clear out of the country for good. I 'll quit belling around and live decent. I 'll—"
"You 'll go into the pit."
Meldrum knew as he looked into that white, set face that he had come to his day of judgment. But he mumbled a last appeal.
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