about. Them's
mysteries, and none of our business, nohow. Show me the man," and here
he began to roar like a Numidian lion, and to tower up above the crowd,
while a face like a razor shot out through the door, looking back
frightened as it fled, "Show me the man as says it's not all right, and
I'll shake him out of his boots."

The gambler picked up his battered box, but he was evidently not in a
good humor. He wiped it on his coat-sleeve, and polished it up and down,
but was ill content. At last, looking out from under his great slouch
hat, he saw the top in the center of a little knot of men holding up his
hand and counting his fingers. He threw the box down on the table and
rushed into the knot of men.

"A bully set you are, ain't you? Gw'yne around a-counting up after a
sick woman. And what do you know, anyhow?" He took hold of the nervous
top, and again set it spinning. "That little woman, she come as we
come. God Almighty didn't set no mark and gauge on you, and you shan't
go 'round and count up after her. Do you hear? Now you git. You're
wanted. Hatchet-face wants yer. Do you hear?"

The man spun his top about till its face was to the door, and it went
out as a sort of handle to the hatchet, and was seen no more that night.

Yet for all this there had been a great ripple in the wave that had to
run even to the shore before it could disappear from the face of things
at the Forks.

CHAPTER XXII.

DEBATABLE GROUND.

The next day when Sandy came down, the enthusiasm was at a low ebb. He
missed the great reception he had expected, and went back home that
night a troubled and anxious man.

What could be the matter? He asked Limber Tim, but Limber Tim had
learned the power and security of silence, and either could not or would
not venture on any revelations. Besides that, he was very busy helping
Bunker Hill with the baby. The camp openly and at all convenient times
discussed the question now, and it began to gradually take shape in the
minds of men that something was really wrong. Kind old Sandy did not
dream what the trouble could be. He feared he had not been generous
enough under his good fortune, and was all the time opening the mouth of
his leather bag at the bar and pouring gold dust into the scales, and
entreating the boys to drink to the health of their little Half-a-pint.

"Yes, our little Half-a-pint it is, I reckons; leastwise it's pretty
certain it ain't yourn." Sandy looked at the man,