bills an inch thick.

"Guess that's enough, ain't it?"

Quick as lightning Mosher had snatched the bills from him, and the man
from Minnesota found himself gazing into the barrel of a six-shooter.

"This here's my money," said Mosher; "now you _git_."

A moment only--a shot rang out. I saw the gun fall from Mosher's hand,
and the roll of bills drop to the ground. Quickly the man from Minnesota
recovered them and rushed off to tell his party. Then the men from
Minnesota got their Winchesters, and the shooting began.

From their camp the gamblers took refuge behind the boulders that
strewed the sides of the canyon, and blazed away at their opponents. A
regular battle followed, which lasted till the fall of night. As far as
I heard, only one casualty resulted. A Swede, about half a mile down the
trail, received a spent bullet in the cheek. He complained to the Deputy
Marshal. That worthy, sitting on his horse, looked at him a moment. Then
he spat comprehensively.

"Can't do anything, Ole. But I'll tell you what. Next time there's
bullets flying round this section of the country, don't go sticking your
darned whiskers in the way. See!"

That night I said to Jim:

"How did you do it?"

He laughed and showed me a hole in his coat pocket which a bullet had
burned.

"You see, having been in the game myself, I knew what was comin' and
acted accordin'."

"Good job you didn't hit him worse."

"Wait a while, sonny, wait a while. There's something mighty familiar
about Jake Mosher. He's mighty like a certain Sam Mosely I'm interested
in. I've just written a letter outside to see, an' if it's him--well,
I'm saved; I'm a good Christian, but--God help him!"

"And who was Sam Mosely, Jim?"

"Sam Mosely? Sam Mosely was the skunk that busted up my home an' stole
my wife, blast him!"

[A: A Jam-wagon was the general name given to an Englishman on the
trail.]

CHAPTER VI

Day after day, each man of us poured out on the trail the last heel-tap
of his strength, and the coming of night found us utterly played out.
Salvation Jim was full of device and resource, the Prodigal, a dynamo of
eager energy; but it was the Jam-wagon who proved his mettle in a
magnificent and relentless way. Whether it was from a sense of
gratitude, or to offset the cravings that assailed him, I know not, but
he crammed the days with merciless exertion.

A curious man was the Jam-wagon, Brian Wanless his name, a world tramp,
a derelict o