f Benson. Across Park Row
went Rogers, and down the eastern walk to Catharine Street, into which
he turned, Benson after him, and Quincy keeping Benson in sight. Rogers
seemed to know where he was going. He raced down Catharine Street into
Cherry, and when halfway to the next corner burst into a small saloon,
whose proprietor, a large, beetle-browed man, stood behind the bar.

"Sailors' boarding-house, isn't it?" panted Rogers. "Hide me and ship
me! I've been to sea. North America's too hot for me."

"Yes," responded the proprietor, with quick comprehension. "Into that
back room and up the stairs. Hide anywhere. I'll stall the police."

But before Rogers could reach the back room Benson burst in, his blue
eyes flashing with excitement, and in his hand a revolver as large and
heavy as Quincy's.

"Hold on, Bill!" he snapped. "Hands up! I've got a bead on you!"

Rogers halted and turned, his hands over his head and his features
drooping in despair. Benson, still covering him, advanced and laid hold
of his collar. Then in burst Quincy, also with drawn revolver.

"Got him, have you? Good enough! I'll take him."

"Oh, no, you won't," answered Benson. "He's mine. Possession's nine
points of the law, you say." With his hand still on Rogers's collar he
covered Quincy with his weapon.

Quincy had not raised his; and he stood still, leaning forward, his
pistol pointed to the floor, while he glared at Benson.

"Now, then, stop this!" said the proprietor, sternly, as he leveled a
bright, nickel-plated revolver at Benson. "Lower that gun--quick! Lower
it--"

Benson saw out of the corner of his eye, and slowly lowered the pistol.

"You, too," he said to Quincy, as he looked at him. "Don't you raise
that shootin' iron! I'm boss here. Put 'em both on the bar, handles
first, both of you!"

There was deadly earnestness in the big man's voice, and they obeyed
him. Handles first the weapons were placed on the bar. Then Quincy
said:

"You're makin' trouble for yourself. This man is my prisoner, and
you're interfering with an officer."

"You a p'liceman?" asked the big man, as he placed the weapons under
the bar.

"I'm Deputy Sheriff of Maricopa County, Arizona."

"And I'm a member of the Northwest Mounted Police," said Benson.

"You're a long way from home, and you've got no friends here. This man
has. He says he's a sailor, and I'm a friend o' sailors. Been one
myself, and I make my livin' off 'em. And when a sailor run