y dear boy, of course not! But come over to my office; I want to
talk with you, Wiley."

The banker beamed upon him affectionately and, shaking out a white
handkerchief, wiped the sudden sweat from his brow; and then Wiley leapt
to the ground.

"All right," he said, "but let's go and see the mine first."

He strapped on his pistol and waited expectantly and at last Blount
breathed heavily and assented. Nothing more was said as they went across
the flat and toiled up the trail to the mine. Wiley walked behind and as
they mounted to the shaft-house his eyes wandered restlessly about;
until, at the tool-shed, they suddenly focussed and a half-crouching man
stepped out. He was tall and gnarly and the point of his chin rested
stiffly on the slope of his shoulder. It was Stiff Neck George and he
kept a crook in his elbow as he glanced from Blount to Wiley.

"How's this?" demanded Wiley, putting Blount between him and George,
"what's this man doing up here?"

"Why, that's George," faltered Blount, "George Norcross, you know. He
works for me around the mine."

"Oh, he does, eh?" observed Wiley, in the cold tones of an examining
lawyer. "How long has he been in your employ?"

"Oh, since we opened up--that's all--just temporarily. This gentleman is
all right, George; you can go."

Stiff Neck George stood silent, his sunken eyes on Wiley, his sunburned
lips parted in a grin, and then he turned and spat.

"Eh, heh; hiding!" he chuckled and, stung by the taunt, Wiley stepped
out into the open. His gun was pulled forward, his jaws set hard, and he
looked the hired man-killer in the eye.

"Don't you think it," he said, "I know you too well. You're afraid to
fight in the day-time; you dirty, sneaking murderer!"

He waited, poised, but George only laughed silently, though his
poisonous eyes began to gleam.

"What are you doing on my ground?" demanded Wiley, advancing
threateningly with his pistol raised. "Don't you know I own this mine?"

"No," snarled Stiff Neck George, coming suddenly to a crouch, "and,
furthermore, I don't give a damn!"

"Now, now, George," broke in Blount, "let's not have any words. Mr.
Holman holds the title to this claim."

"Heh--Holman!" mocked George, "Honest John's boy--eh?" He laughed
insultingly and spat against the wind and Wiley's lip curled up
scornfully.

"Yes--Honest John," he repeated evenly. "And it's a wonder to me you
don't take a few lessons and learn to spit clear of your chin."