"What the hell is it yer want, then?" he asked sullenly. Hayes smiled,

shifting easily so as to rest his weight on one leg.

"Got anybody in your bunch named Winston?" he questioned, "Ned Winston,

mining engineer?"

The younger man started in surprise.

"That is my name," he replied, before Hicks could speak. The sheriff

looked toward him curiously, noting the square jaw, the steady gray

eyes; then he glanced aside at Farnham. The latter nodded carelessly.

"So far, so good. By the same luck, have you a Swede here called Nels

Swanson?"

Hicks shook his head in uncertainty.

"There 's a Swede here, all right, who belongs ter the 'Independence'

gang. I don 't know his name."

"It's Swanson," put in Farnham, cheerfully. "Those are the two birds

you 're after, sheriff."

The latter official, as though fascinated by what he read there, never

ventured to remove his watchfulness from the face of the engineer, yet

he smiled grimly.

"Then I 'll have to trouble you to trot out the Swede, Hicks," he said,

a distinct command in his voice. "After he 's here we 'll get down to

business."

It was fully five minutes before the fellow arrived, his movements slow

and reluctant. From his language, expressing his feelings freely to

Mike and Brown, who were engaged in urging him forward, it was evident

he experienced no ambition to appear in the limelight. The four men

waiting his coming remained motionless, intently watchful of one

another. As the slowly moving Swede finally approached, Hayes ventured

to remove his eyes from Winston just long enough to scan swiftly the

mournful countenance, that single glance revealing to him the character

of the man. The latter gazed uneasily from one face to another, his

mild blue eyes picturing distress, his fingers pulling aimlessly at his

moustache.

"Ay ban yere by you fellers," he confessed sorrowfully, unable to

determine which person it was that wanted him.

"So I see," admitted the sheriff laconically. "Are you Nels Swanson?"

The fellow swallowed something in his throat that seemed to choke him.

This question sounded familiar; it brought back in a rush a

recollection of his late controversy with Mr. O'Brien. His face

flushed, his eyes hardening.

"Ay ban Nels Swanson!" he exploded, beating the air with clenched fist.

"Ay ban Lutheran! Ay ban shovel-man by Meester Burke. Ay get two

tollar saxty cint! Ay not give won tamn for you! Ay lick de fellar

vot ask me dot again!"

The sheriff stared at him, much as he might have examined a new and

peculiar specimen of bug.

"I don't recall having asked you anything about your family history,"

he said quietly, dropping one hand in apparent carelessness on the butt

of his "45." "Your name was all I wanted." He tapped the breast of

his coat suggestively, his gaze returning to Winston.




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