right hand slipped to the butt of his gun. "Say you,"
he cried threateningly, "if you got anything to say I'm right here
yearnin' to listen."

Joan saw the half-drawn weapon, and in the same instant became aware
of a movement on the part of the man Beasley. She was horrified,
expecting one of those fierce collisions she had heard about. But the
moment passed, and, though she did not realize it, it was caused by
Ike's gun leaving its holster first.

Her woman's fear urged her, and she raised a protesting hand.

"Please--please," she cried, her eyes dilating with apprehension.
"What have I done that you should come here to quarrel?"

Buck in the background smiled. He was mentally applauding the girl's
readiness, while he watched the others closely.

Ike turned to her again, and his anger had merged into a comical look
of chagrin.

"Y' see, missie," he said in a fresh tone of apology, "ther's fellers
around here wi' no sort o' manners. They're scairt to death makin' a
big talk to a red-ha'r'd gal, so I jest got to do it. An' I sez it, it
ain't easy, folks like me speechin' to folks like you----"

"Oh, git on!" cried Pete in a tired voice.

"Your hot air's nigh freezin'," laughed Soapy Kid.

"Quit it," cried Ike hotly. "Ain't they an ignorant lot o' hogs?" he
went on, appealing to the smiling girl. "Y' see, missie, we're right
glad you come along. We're prospectin' this layout fer gold an'----"

"An' we ain't had no sort o' luck till you got around," added Pete
hastily.

"In the storm," nodded Curly Saunders.

"All mussed-up an' beat to hell," cried Ike, feeling that he was being
ousted from his rights.

"Yes, an' Buck carried you to home, an' rode in fer the doc, an' had
you fixed right," cried Abe.

Ike looked round indignantly.

"Say, is youse fellers makin' this big talk or me? ain't yearnin', if
any feller's lookin' fer glory."

His challenge was received with a chorus of laughter.

"You're doin' fine," cried the Kid.

Ike favored the speaker with a contemptuous stare and returned to his
work. He shrugged.

"They ain't no account anyway, missie," he assured her, "guess they're
sore. Wal, y' see you come along in the storm, an' what should happen
but the side o' Devil's Hill drops out, an' sets gold rollin' around
like--like taters fallin' through a rotten sack. 'Gold?' sez we, an'
gold it is. 'Who bro't us sech luck?' we asts. An' ther' it is right
ther', so ther' can't be no mistake. Jest a po