past career, and he knew
that with the greater number of his shaded spots Zephyr was more or less
familiar. With which of them was Zephyr most familiar, and was there any
one by means of which Zephyr could thwart him by threatening exposure?
Pierre's tread became yet more silent. He was half crouching, as if
ready for a spring. Zephyr had referred to the cellar. There was his
weakest spot. Luna, the mill foreman, dozens of men, he could name them
every one--all had brought their plunder to the Blue Goose.

Every man who brought him uncoined gold was a thief, and they all felt
safe because in the eyes of the law he, Pierre, was one of them. He
alone was not safe. Not one of the thieves was certainly known to the
others; he was known to them all. It could not be helped. He had taken
big chances; but his reward had been great as well. That would not help
him, if--Unconsciously he crouched still lower. "If there's any
procession heading for Canon City you'll be in it, too." Someone had got
frightened. Luna, probably. Firmstone was working him, and Zephyr was
helping Firmstone. Pierre knew well the fickle favour of the common man.
A word could destroy his loyalty, excite his fears, or arouse him to
vengeance. Burning, bitter hatred raged in the breast of the little
Frenchman. Exposure, ruin, the penitentiary! His hand rested on the butt
of his revolver as he slowly turned.

Zephyr was leaning on the table. There was a look of languid assurance,
of insolent contempt in the eye that was squinting along a polished
barrel held easily, but perfectly balanced for instant action.

"Go it, Frenchy." Zephyr's voice was patronising.

Pierre gave way to the passion that raged within him.

"_Sacre nom du diable! Mille tonnerres!_ You bin tink you mek me scare,
_moi_, Pierre! Come on, Meestaire Zephyr, come on! Fourtin more just
like it! Strew de piece hall roun' ze dooryard!"

Zephyr's boots thumped applause.

"A-a-ah! Ze gran' _spectacle_! _Magnifique!_ By gar! She bin comedown
firsrate. Frenchy, you have missed your cue. Take the advice of a
friend. Don't stay here, putting addled eggs under a painted goose. Just
do that act on the stage, and you'll have to wear seven-league boots to
get out of the way of rolling dollars."

CHAPTER XVIII

_Winnowed Chaff_

Hartwell had a rule of conduct. It was a Procrustean bed which rarely
fitted its subject. Unlike the originator of the famous couch, Hartwell
never troubled hims