stly, you and your rabbit-faced lawyer will grab it;
but if I go out and steal it you don't dare to claim half, because that
would make you out a thief. And of course a banker, and a big mining
magnate, and the owner of the famous Willie Meena--well, it just isn't
done, that's all."

He twisted up his lips in a wry, sarcastic smile but Eells was not
susceptible to irony. He was the bulldog type of man, the kind that
takes hold and hangs on, and he could see that the ore was rich. It was
so rich indeed that in those two sacks alone there were undoubtedly
several thousand dollars--and the mine itself might be worth millions.
Eells turned and beckoned to Phillip F. Lapham, who was looking on with
greedy eyes. They consulted together while Wunpost waited calmly, though
with the battle light in his eyes, and at last Eells returned to the
charge.

"Mr. Calhoun," he said, "there's no use to pretend that this ore which
you have is stolen. We have seen samples of it before and it is very
unusual--in fact, no one has seen anything like it. Therefore your claim
that it is stolen is a palpable pretense, to deprive me of my rights
under our constitution.

"Yes?" prompted Wunpost, dropping his hand on his pistol, and Eells
paused and glanced at Lapham.

"Well," he conceded, "of course I can't prove anything and----"

"No, you bet you can't prove anything," spoke up Wunpost defiantly, "and
you can't touch an ounce of my ore. It's mine and I stole it and no
court can make me show where; because a man can't be compelled to
incriminate himself--and if I showed you they could come out and pinch
me. Huh! You've got a lawyer, have you? Well, I've got one myself and I
know my legal rights and if any man puts out his hand to take away this
bag, I've got a right to shoot him dead! Ain't that right now, Mr. Flip
Flappum?"

"Well--the law gives one the right to defend his own property; but only
with sufficient force to resist the attack, and to shoot would be
excessive."

"Not with me!" asserted Wunpost, "I've consulted one of the best lawyers
in Nevada and I'm posted on every detail. There's Pisen-face Lynch, that
everybody knows is a gun-man in the employ of Judson Eells, and at the
first crooked move I'd be justified in killing him and then in killing
you and Eells. Oh, I'll law you, you dastards, I'll law you with a
six-shooter--and I've got an attorney all hired to defend me. We've
agreed on his fee and I've got it all buried where