The flat, hard cap was small, but he thrust it to the back of his head. "Tie him up". "Hell with it". Before they could guess his intention Rankin stepped forward and swung the guard's own gun against the uncovered head, hard. The man went over without sound, falling to the bare floor. Barton said harshly, "Why did you do that"? Rankin sneered at him. "What did you want me to do, kiss him? He dumped me in solitary twice". Barton caught the lighter man's shoulder and swung him around. "Let's get one thing straight, you and me. The only reason we brought you was to get Miller out. If you ever try anything without my orders I'll kill you". Fred Rankin looked at him. It seemed to Barton that the green eyes mocked him, the thin-lipped smile held insolence, but he had no time to waste now. "Come on. Let's move". They filed out through the guard-room door, into the paved square. There were three other men within this prison whom Barton would have liked to liberate, but they were in other cell blocks. There was no chance. They moved slowly, toward the main gate, following the wall. There was no moon. They had chosen this night purposely. They reached the guard house without alerting the men on the walls above, and Powers slipped through the door. Two men were on duty inside, playing pinochle, relaxed. They looked up in surprise as Powers came in. "What are you doing out of the block"? "It's Curtiss", he said, naming the man Rankin had hit. "I've got to have help". They stared at him. The sergeant in charge climbed to his feet. "What's wrong with him"? "He's having some kind of a fit". The sergeant turned to the door. As he passed through it Barton shoved his gun against the man's side. "One sound and you're dead". The sergeant froze. Powers had not followed. Powers was covering the remaining guard. The man half-reached for the cord of the alarm bell. Powers knocked his arm aside. Deliberately, with none of Rankin's viciousness, he laid the barrel of his gun alongside the guard's head. They were free. Even Barton could not quite believe it. It had gone without a hitch. They slid through the wicket in the big gate, ghosted across the dark ground. Five minutes later they reached the horses. Barton was relieved to see that Carl Dill and Emmett Foster had brought extra mounts. He had been worried that with Miller and Rankin added to the escape party they would be short. No one hurried. They walked the horses, heading along the river, Barton and Emmett Foster in the lead, seven men riding quietly through the night. The only thing which would have attracted attention was that two wore the uniform of prison guards, three the striped suits of convicts. Five miles. In a small grove against the river they halted, turning deep into the protection of the trees. Foster had brought extra clothing also. A good man, Emmett. He had been one of the original Night Riders, one who had escaped the trial. It was to him that Barton had sent Carl Dill on Dill's release from the prison. Clyde Miller was crying softly to himself, shedding his striped suit and fumbling into the nondescript butternut pants, the worn brown shirt. Kid Boyd was unusually silent, Rankin watchful, a few paces apart. Barton finished his dressing and extended his hand to Powers. "I won't even try to thank you". The ex-prison guard was embarrassed. He said in a studied voice, "I didn't do it for you. I did it for the valley. You're the only man the Night Riders will follow. We've been starving and I don't like to starve". Barton turned away, his eyes falling upon Rankin beside his horse. "Good luck". The murderer lifted his head. "Meaning you want me to ride out"? "You aren't one of us. There's nothing for you here". "I got no place to go". Barton hesitated. He did not trust Rankin, his violent temper, his killer instinct. But ten years in prison had taught him realities. They were in a fight, outweighed in both numbers and money. It was all right to put a bunch of ranchers onto horses, to call them Night Riders, to set out to attack the largest mining combination the country had ever seen if all they wanted was adventure. But if they really hoped to succeed they needed professionals, men who knew how to use a gun against men, who would match the killers on the other side. "Your choice", he said briefly, and turned to Kid Boyd. "Bury those uniforms so they won't be found". Then Barton touched Carl Dill's arm and moved off, up the river bank. He wanted a careful, uninterrupted report from Dill on the conditions in the valley. They squatted on their heels in the deep mud and Dill found a cigar in his breast pocket, passing it over silently. He too knew the agony of going for weeks, sometimes months without the solace of tobacco. Mitchell Barton drew in the fragrance deeply, letting the smoke lie warm and soothing in his throat for a moment before he exhaled. Through the gloom he could not see the man beside him clearly but he knew him thoroughly. For his first five years in prison, they had shared a cell. Carl Dill was neither a rancher nor a valley man. He had been the auditor for the mining syndicate, and he had stolen fifty thousand dollars of the syndicate's money. He had done time for the theft. The one thing they had in common was their hatred. Both hated Donald Kruger. It had drawn them together, and since his release from prison Dill had worked tirelessly to effect this night's escape. He said now, "I've got the perfect headquarters set up. The old Haskell mine". Mitch Barton knew the place. Twenty years before a group of Easterners had bought out the Haskell claims in the rocky hills south of Grass Valley. They had spent a million dollars, carving in a road, putting up buildings, drilling their haulage tunnel. Then the vein had petered out and the whole project had been abandoned. "The road's washed badly", said Dill, "but there's a trail you can get over with a horse. A company of cavalry couldn't come in there if two men were guarding that trail". Barton nodded. "How do the valley people feel"? "As mad as ever. But Kruger's men keep them off balance, and they don't trust me. I'm an outsider. When they learn you're in the hills though, they'll rally, don't worry about that". Barton waited for a long moment, then asked the question which lay always uppermost in his mind. "My boy. Did you find him"? Dill was silent as if he hated to answer, and Barton had a cold, sick feeling of apprehension. "He's in Morgan's Ferry". Barton half-straightened in surprise. "What's he doing there"? Again Dill hesitated. "Dealing faro". "Dealing faro? How come"? "Your sister-in-law has the faro bank in Cap Ayres' saloon". Barton cursed under his breath. After another long pause he asked, "How many people know who they are"? "Everyone. Your cousin Finley saw to that. He's quite a rat, you know. He sold out to Kruger's men. He's informed them of everything you've ever written him. He wants your ranch". Barton stood up. He said tensely, "All right. Let's go get the boy". Dill had come up also. "I was afraid of this. I almost didn't tell you". "If you hadn't I'd have killed you". Dill's voice tightened. "But you can't ride into the Ferry. That's what they'll expect you to do. They'll be there waiting for you. I understand how you feel about the child." "The hell you do". Barton's voice was rougher than Dill had ever heard it. "I never saw him. My wife died in childbirth after I was sent away. "I can't leave him there. Donald Kruger would like nothing better than to hold him as hostage, and I wouldn't entrust a snake to his tender care. I've got to get the boy. Let's ride". Chapter two Barton's men cut the telegraph wires in half a dozen places, carrying away whole sections to make repairs more difficult. It was over an hour before their escape was discovered, but still the news that Barton was free flashed across the central portion of the state. It reached Donald Kruger in his massive home in Burlingame. It reached the mines at North San Juan and Bloomfield. It brought men out of bed and sent them into hurried conferences. For everyone involved knew that the whole valley was a powder keg, and Mitchell Barton the fuse which could send it into explosive violence. Creighton Hague sat in his office above the Ione pit. The office was of logs, four rooms, each heated by an iron stove. The building was dwarfed by the scene outside. There a dozen giant monitors played their seventy-five-foot jets of water against the huge seam of tertiary gravel which was the mountainside. The gravel was the bed of an ancient river, buckled in some prehistoric upheaval of earth. It was partially cemented by ages and pressure, yet it crumpled before the onslaught of the powerful streams, the force of a thousand fire hoses, and with the gold it held washed down through the long sluices. A million dollars' of gold a month. A million tons of rock and soil and brush. The monitors ran twenty-four hours each day. Their roar, like the swelling volume of a hundred tornadoes could be heard for miles. Hague, like all who worked near the pits, was partly deafened from the constant assault against his eardrums. He was a big man, wearing a neat flannel shirt against the cold foothill air. Fat showed in loose rolls beneath the shirt. Ten years older than Mitch Barton, he had clawed his way up from mucker in the pits to manager of the operation. He was proud of his accomplishments, proud of his job, proud that Donald Kruger and his associates trusted him. He lived and breathed for the mining company. No man could have reached his spot nor held it without being ruthless, and Hague had made a virtue of ruthlessness all of his life. There came a ghost of noise at the office door and Hague swung to see Kodyke in the entrance from the outer room. Hague had never accustomed himself to Kodyke. The man was tall, thin, with a narrow face and a too-large nose. The eyes always held Hague, eyes of a dead man, lidless as a lizard's, with the fixed intensity of a cobra. Even Hague was repelled by the machinelike deadliness that was Kodyke. He knew nothing about the man's history. Kodyke had appeared at the mine one day bearing a letter from Kruger. Kodyke was to head the dread company police. He ran the change rooms. He threw out the hi-graders. He supervised the cleanups and handled the shipments of raw gold which each week went out to San Francisco. Hague squeezed down his uneasy dislike. He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and drew out a tintype. "This is Mitchell Barton. He broke out of Folsom last night. Apparently he bribed one of the guards. We want him back there or we want him dead". Kodyke took the picture in a lean hand, studying it thoughtfully. "Dangerous"? "Dangerous, yes. You know how the ranchers in the valley are. They blame us for all their troubles. Ten years ago they blew up some of our ditches. It cost us a hundred thousand dollars and thirty days lost time to fix them. We don't want Barton's Night Riders loose again". The gunman nodded, slipping the picture into his breast pocket, saying nothing. Normally Hague wasted no words, but now he found himself unable to stop their flow although he knew Kodyke was aware of all he said.