CHAPTER XXIII.
AT THE POINT OF DEATH.
Two of Chester's pursuers approached him warily with leveled revolvers,
apparently fearing a trick. Coming within striking distance, one of them
dealt the lad a heavy blow with his fist. Chester fell to the floor
without so much as a groan, unconscious.
When the lad again opened his eyes he was once more in the council
chamber of the conspirators. In the dim light he could discern the masked
circle of faces that had gazed at him when he had entered the room for
the first time. The only difference being that there was here and there a
vacant chair.
Chester recovered consciousness fully alert to what was going on about
him. He took in the situation at a glance, and a grim smile lighted up
his face as his eyes fell upon the vacant chairs.
"Looks like I had done a fair job, at any rate," he told himself.
His gaze turned toward the chief's platform. The chief was there, but his
head was swathed in bandages.
"Too bad I missed him!" Chester muttered. "He is evidently the
ring-leader, and to have downed him would have been the proper thing."
Any further reflections the lad might have had were interrupted by the
booming voice of the chief, who now rose to his feet.
"Prisoner, stand up!" he commanded.
Chester arose from the chair in which he had been seated. His arms were
bound behind him and his feet had been tied together; still he found that
he could stand.
"Prisoner," continued the chief, "your name!"
"Chester Crawford," was the lad's firm reply.
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