the uneasy shifting
groups in front of the hotel.

"Not often," Winton admitted. "But it's the luck of the big camps:
they are the dumping-grounds of the world while the high pressure is
on."

The ex-range-rider turned on the courthouse steps to look the sidewalk
loungers over with narrowing eyes.

"There's Sheeny Mike and Big Otto and half a dozen others right there
in front o' the Buckingham that couldn't stay to breathe twice in
Argentine. And this town's got a po-lice!"--the comment with
lip-curling scorn.

"It also has a county court which is probably waiting for us," said
Winton; whereupon they went in to appease the offended majesty of the
law.

As Winton had predicted, his answer to the court summons was a mere
formality. On parting with his chief at the Argentine station
platform, Adams' first care had been to wire news of the arrest to the
Utah headquarters. Hence Winton found the company's attorney waiting
for him in Judge Whitcomb's courtroom, and his release on an
appearance bond was only a matter of moments.

The legal affair dismissed, there ensued a weary interval of
time-killing. There was no train back to Argentine until nearly five
o'clock in the afternoon, and the hours dragged heavily for the two,
who had nothing to do but wait. Biggin endured his part of it manfully
till the midday dinner had been discussed; then he drifted off with
one of Winton's cigars between his teeth, saying that he should "take
poison" and shoot up the town if he could not find some more peaceful
means of keeping his blood in circulation.

It was a little after three o'clock, and Winton was sitting at the
writing-table in the lobby of the hotel elaborating his hasty notebook
data of the morning's inspection, when a boy came in with a telegram.
The young engineer was not so deeply engrossed in his work as to be
deaf to the colloquy.

"Mr. John Winton? Yes, he is here somewhere," said the clerk in answer
to the boy's question; and after an identifying glance: "There he
is--over at the writing-table."

Winton turned in his chair and saw the boy coming toward him; also he
saw the ruffian pointed out by Biggin from the court-house steps and
labeled "Sheeny Mike" lounging up to the clerk's desk for a whispered
exchange of words with the bediamonded gentleman behind it.

What followed was cataclysmic in its way. The lounger took three
staggering lurches toward Winton, brushed the messenger boy aside, and
burst out in