I right?"

Again reluctant nods and half-sheepish grins.

"Now, you fellows forget your lynching bee. Commons, Ralston, Schwartz,
you make a committee to raise enough money to send Mrs. Robins and the
boy back to New Hampshire with the body. Here is ten to start with. They
must leave this noon. Tom Weeks, you make the funeral arrangements. I'll
see that transportation is ready at noon. Bill Underwood, you get a
posse of fifty men and quarantine this camp for booze."

A little laugh went through the crowd. Billy Underwood had been the
chief malcontent under Jim's liquor ruling. Bill did not laugh. He began
to pick his men with the manner of a general.

"One word more," said Jim. "You all know that the United States
Reclamation Service is under the suspicion of the nation. They call you
and me a bunch of grafters. It's up to you as much as it is to me to
show today that we are men and not lawless hoboes."

A little murmur of applause swept through the crowd as Jim turned on his
heel. He made his way into the Mexican end of the camp. There was noise
here of talking and quarreling. Jim walked up to a tall Mexican who was
in a way a padrone among the hombres.

"Garces," said Jim, "send the night shift to bed."

Garces eyed Jim through half-shut eyes. Jim did not move a muscle.
"Why?" asked the Mexican.

"Because I shall put them to bed unless they are gone in five minutes."

Jim pulled out his watch. In just four minutes, after a shouted order
from Garces, the street was cleared of more than half the hombres.

"Now," said Jim, "except when the shifts change, you are to keep your
people this side of the ditch," pointing to the line that separated the
Mexican and American camps. "I have fifty men scouring the camp for
whiskey. Anybody found with liquor will be arrested. If there is a
particle of trouble over it in your camp, I'll let the Gringos loose.
Sabez?"

Garces shivered a little. "Yes, senor," he said.

Jim took a turn up and down the street on his horse, then started for
the dam site. As he cantered up the road, Billy Underwood, mounted on a
moth-eaten pony, saluted with dignity.

"Boss, that saloon keeper up the canyon has got a billion bottles of
booze. Worst whiskey you ever smelled. He says he's laying for you and
if you cross his doorstep, he'll shoot you up."

Jim looked at Bill meditatively. "Bill, I'm going to call his bluff!"

"Us fellows in my posse'll shoot his place up if you say the word,"