ign over the door of a shack ahead, white lettered on
black oil cloth:

CLAY WESTLAKE.
ASSAYER--SURVEYOR AND
MINING ENGINEER.

A knot of men were milling about the place.

"Doin' a trade already," said Sam. "Must have brung that sign erlong
with him. Smart, fo' a youngster. Simpson said he was a kid. How 'bout
seein' him befo' Miss Bailey an' Ed here stake their claims? I'm aimin'
to mark out one fo' me, same time."

"Also me," said Mormon.

Guffaws suddenly rose from the little crowd by the assayer's sign. A
deep voice boomed out in bullying tone, followed by silence, then more
laughs. Sandy leaned to Mormon.

"You keep her an' young Ed back," he said. "Trouble here, I figger."

Mormon nodded, stepping ahead, blocking Miranda's progress in apparently
aimless and clumsy fashion while Sandy, his hands dropping to his gun
butts, lifting the weapons slightly and, releasing them into the
holsters once again, lengthened his stride, walking cat-footed, on the
soles of his feet, as he always did when he scented trouble. Sam, easing
his own gun, lightly touched his lips with the tip of his tongue and
followed Sandy with eyes that widened and brightened.

"Bullyin' the kid, I reckon," he said to Sandy as they went. Sandy did
not need to nod before they reached the half-ring that had formed about
a young chap in khaki shirt, riding breeches and puttees, whose fair
hair was curly above a face tanned, and resolute enough. Yet he was
clearly nervous at the jibes of the crowd and the actions of the man who
faced him, heavy of body, long of arm, heavy of jowl; a deep-chested,
broad-shouldered individual whose head, cropped close, tapering in a
rounded cone from his bushy eyebrows, helped largely to give him the
aspect of a professional wrestler, or a heavyweight prizefighter. He
carried a big blued Colt revolver, and the way he spun the weapon on the
trigger guard showed familiarity with the weapon.

The young assayer had no holster to his belt, seemingly no gun. His
clean shaven jaws were clamped tight so that the muscles lumped here and
there, and he fronted the unsympathetic crowd and the jeering bully with
a courage that was partly born of desperation.

"Mining engineer!" read the bully. "Smart, ain't he, for a curly-headed
kid! Engineer? Peanut butcher 'ud suit better. Looks like a movie
pitcher actor, don't he? Mebbe he's a vodeville performer. I'll bet he
is, at that. What's yore speshulty, kid? Si