I remember the faces about me, fierce, scowling faces, of men wild to lay hold upon me at the first word of command, yet it was Henley I looked at, measuring the distance between us, and watching the revolver in his hand.

What did he mean to do?
Kill me, or give me over into the hands of those merciless devils?
All I could read in his eyes was hatred, exultation, consciousness of power.

Suddenly he laughed, a sneering, cynical laugh, as though he thought me cringing before him in terror.

The man judged me by himself, and believed me helpless.
"Hard luck, Craig--hey!" he began tauntingly.

"Played with the wrong man, did n't you.