alse decided to
alter his plans, and turning off to Skerry Hill, join the laager there
for the present. Needless to say, the acquisition of a man of his
record and resource was enthusiastically hailed by the occupants. And
Denham, too. Another "rifle," and the more of such the better.

Minton was a rough and tumble sort of man, of no particular
characteristic except that when he had had a couple of glasses too many
he became a quite phenomenal bore; when he had had three, he wanted to
fight, but as no one thought it worthwhile taking him seriously he went
to sleep instead. He had a limp wife and several small children, all
given to howling vehemently on any or no provocation.

"Hello, Ben," cried Minton. "What's the news up your way? Must be hot
if _you've_ decided to clear. Well, Miss Verna, hope you've brought
your .303. We may want it. And you, sir; glad to meet you. Had heard
of you being with our friends here. Come in; I've still got a boy left
who can look after your horses."

Verna did not like the allusion to her shooting powers. She had never
quite thrown off that misgiving she had lest in Denham's sight she
should always be the fighting, hunting Amazon. Minton's
well-intentioned jocularity grated upon her ears. But it need not have.

Then the limp wife and the children came forward, and were duly made
acquainted with Denham, who won golden opinions from the minor parent of
the latter on the spots by stroking their sticky little paws within his,
and insisting upon making them stickier still with the contents of
certain glass bottles of bull's-eyes which stood upon one of the shelves
within the store.

"What's yours, Mr Denham?" said Minton, going, in business-like
fashion, behind the bar end of the store counter. "Ben's form of poison
never varies. It's square face in this country, and `dop' down in
Natal--when he can get it. Cheer, oh!"

Now the prospectors dropped in. All knew Ben Halse; then they were
introduced to Denham, and of course another round was set up.

"Hello, Robson," sung out Minton, when this was accomplished. "Where's
your pal?"

"Don't know. He says it's too hot."

"Too hot?" rejoined Minton derisively. "I like that. He's hot stuff
himself. Bring him in. It's my round."

Thus Harry Stride and Denham met again. The latter showed no trace of
resentment with regard to their last meeting. He greeted Stride with an
open, pleasant cordiality that rather astonis