idgeted with the rusty metal of the gun that bulged its sides.
This pressure of interrogation was upsetting the restraint he was
putting on himself. All his grief and anger were surging uppermost
again. With a big effort, which was not lost upon his shrewd audience,
he choked down his rising emotion.

"Oh, I--I'd like to pay him a 'party call,'" he blurted out.

Minky was about to speak, but Wild Bill kept him silent with a sharp
glance. An audible snigger came from beyond the window.

"Guess you know jest wher' you'll locate him?" inquired the gambler.

"No, but I'm going to find him, sure," replied Scipio doggedly. Then
he added, with his eyes averted, "Guess I shan't let up till I do."

There was a weak sparkle in the little man's eyes.

"What's your game?" rasped Bill curiously.

"Oh, just nothin'."

The reply caused a brief embarrassed pause. Then the gambler broke it
with characteristic force.

"An' fer that reason you're--carryin' a gun," he said, pointing at the
man's bulging pocket.

Sandy Joyce ceased stacking his "chips"; Toby squared his broad
shoulders and drained an already empty glass. Minky blinked his
astonishment, while Wild Bill thrust his long legs out and aggressively
pushed his hat back on his head. It was at that moment that curiosity
overcame Sunny Oak's habitual indolence, and his face appeared over
the window-sill.

"He's stole from me," said Scipio in a low tone.

"What's he stole?" demanded the gambler savagely.

"My wife."

The stillness of the room remained unbroken for some moments. Actions
came far easier to these men than mere words. Scipio's words had a
paralyzing effect upon their powers of speech, and each was busy with
thoughts which they were powerless to interpret into words. "Lord"
James was a name they had reason to hate. It was a name synonymous
with theft, and even worse--to them. He had stolen from their
community, which was unforgivable, but this--this was something new to
them, something which did not readily come into their focus. Wild Bill
was the first to recover himself.

"How d'you know?" he asked.

"She wrote telling me."

"She went 'cos she notioned it?" inquired Sandy.

"He's stole her--he's stole my Jessie," said Scipio sullenly.

"An' you're goin' to fetch her back?" Bill's question whipped the
still air.

"Sure--she's mine."

Scipio's simplicity and single-mindedness brought forth a sigh of
intense feeling from his hearers.

"How?" Wi