ations were properly made in 'Slim's' name and my own. The sampling
and the cabin and the tunnel count for assessment work. I had not
abandoned the claim."

"Nevertheless, my engineer informs me----"

"Your engineer?" A light dawned.

"Wilburt Dill--pity you did not meet him, a bright young chap--"

"I met him," Bruce answered grimly. "I shall hope to meet him again."

"No doubt you will," Sprudell taunted, "if you happen to be there when
we're putting up the plant. As I was saying, Mr. Dill's telegram, which
came last night, informs me that he has carried out my instructions, and
therefore, individually, and as the President of the Bitter Root Placer
Mining Company, I now control one hundred and sixty acres of ground up
and down the river, including the bar upon which your cabin stands."
Sprudell's small, red mouth curved in its tantalizing smile.

"You'll never hold it!" Bruce said furiously.

"The days of gun-plays have gone by," Sprudell reminded him. "And you
haven't got the price to fight me in the courts. You'd better lay down
before you start and save yourself the worry. What can you do? You have
no money, no influence, no brains to speak of," he sneered insultingly,
"or you wouldn't be down there doing what you are. You haven't a single
asset but your muscle, and in the open market that's worth about
three-fifty a day."

Bruce stood like a mute, the blood burning in his face. Even toward
"Slim" he never had felt such choking, speechless rage as this.

"You Judas Iscariot!" he said when he could speak. "You betrayed my
hospitality--my trust. Next to a cache robber you're the meanest kind of
a thief I've ever known. I've read your story in the newspaper, and so
has the old man who saved your rotten life. We know you for the lying
braggart that you are. You made yourself out a hero when you were a
weakling and a coward.

"You're right--you tell the truth when you twit me with the fact that I
have no money no influence, perhaps no brains--not a single asset, as
you say, but brute strength; yet somehow, I'll beat you!" He stepped
closer and looking deep into the infantile blue eyes that had grown as
hard as granite, reiterated--"_Somehow I'm going to win!_"

To say that Abe Cone and Mr. Herman Florsheim departed is not
enough--they faded, vanished, without a sound.

Sprudell's eyes quailed a little beneath the fierce intensity of Bruce's
gaze, but for a moment only.

"I've heard men talk like that bef