wins?" repeated a Circle City man.

"The feller that's got the most friends."

"It's so," whispered Keith.

"----same at Circle," returned the up-river man.

McGinty looked at him. Was this a possible adherent?

"You got a Push at Circle?" he inquired, but without genuine interest
in the civil administration up the river. "Why, 'fore this yere town
was organised, when we hadn't got no Court of Arbitration to fix a
boundary, or even to hang a thief, we had our 'main Push,' just like we
was 'Frisco." He lowered his voice, and leaned towards his Circle
friend. "With Bonsor's help they 'lected Corey Judge o' the P'lice
Court, and Bonsor ain't never let Corey forgit it."

"What about the other?" inquired a Bonsorite, "the shifty Push that got
you in for City Marshal?"

"What's the row on to-night?" inquired the Circle City man.

"Oh, Bonsor, over there, he lit out on a stampede 'bout Christmas, and
while he was gone a feller by the name o' Lawrence quit the game.
Fanned out one night at the Gold Nugget. I seen for days he was wantin'
to be a angil, and I kep' a eye on 'im. Well, when he went to the
boneyard, course it was my business, bein' City Marshal, to take
possession of his property fur his heirs!"

There was unseemly laughter behind the stove-pipe.

"Among his deeds and traps," McGinty went on, unheeding, "there was
fifteen hundred dollars in money. Well, sir, when Bonsor gits back he
decides he'd like to be the custodian o' that cash. Mentions his idee
to me. I jest natchrally tell him to go to hell. No, sir, he goes to
Corey over there, and gits an order o' the Court makin' Bonsor
administrator o' the estate o' James Lawrence o' Noo Orleens, lately
deceased. Then Bonsor comes to me, shows me the order, and demands that
fifteen hundred."

"Didn't he tell you you could keep all the rest o' Lawrence's stuff?"
asked the Bonsorite.

McGinty disdained to answer this thrust.

"But I knows my dooty as City Marshal, and I says, 'No,' and Bonsor
says, says he, 'If you can't git the idee o' that fifteen hundred
dollars out o' your head, I'll git it out fur ye with a bullet,' an' he
draws on me."

"An' McGinty weakens," laughed the mocker behind the stove-pipe.

"Bonsor jest pockets the pore dead man's cash," says McGinty, with
righteous indignation, "and I've called this yer meetin' t' arbitrate
the matter."

"Minook doesn't mind arbitrating," says Keith low to the Colonel, "but
there isn't a man in camp