“And you WON'T,” added the Superintendent, leisurely sipping his liquor. “For the fact is, the gang is about played out. Not from want of a job now and then, but from the difficulty of disposing of the results of their work. Since the new instructions to the agents to identify and trace all dust and bullion offered to them went into force, you see, they can't get rid of their swag. All the gang are spotted at the offices, and it costs too much for them to pay a fence or a middleman of any standing. Why, all that flaky river gold they took from the Excelsior Company can be identified as easy as if it was stamped with the company's mark. They can't melt it down themselves; they can't get others to do it for them; they can't ship it to the Mint or Assay Offices in Marysville and 'Frisco, for they won't take it without our certificate and seals; and WE don't take any undeclared freight WITHIN the lines that we've drawn around their beat, except from people and agents known. Why, YOU know that well enough, Jim,” he said, suddenly appealing to the Expressman, “don't you?” Possibly the suddenness of the appeal caused the Expressman to swallow his liquor the wrong way, for he was overtaken with a fit of coughing, and stammered hastily as he laid down his glass, “Yes--of course--certainly.” “No, sir,” resumed the Superintendent cheerfully, “they're pretty well played out. And the best proof of it is that they've lately been robbing ordinary passengers' trunks. There was a freight wagon 'held up' near Dow's Flat the other day, and a lot of baggage gone through. I had to go down there to look into it. Darned if they hadn't lifted a lot o' woman's wedding things from that rich couple who got married the other day out at Marysville. Looks as if they were playing it rather low down, don't it? Coming down to hardpan and the bed rock--eh?” The Expressman's face was turned anxiously towards Bill, who, after a hurried gulp of his remaining liquor, still stood staring at the window. Then he slowly drew on one of his large gloves. “Ye didn't,” he said, with a slow, drawling, but perfectly distinct, articulation, “happen to know old 'Skinner' Hemmings when you were over there?” “Yes.” “And his daughter?” “He hasn't got any.” “A sort o' mild, innocent, guileless child of nature?” persisted Bill, with a yellow face, a deadly calm and Satanic deliberation. “No. I tell you he HASN'T any daughter. Old man Hemmings is a confirmed old bachelor. He's too mean to support more than one.” “And you didn't happen to know any o' that gang, did ye?” continued Bill, with infinite protraction. “Yes. Knew 'em all. There was French Pete, Cherokee Bob, Kanaka Joe, One-eyed Stillson, Softy Brown, Spanish Jack, and two or three Greasers.” “And ye didn't know a man by the name of Charley Byng?” “No,” returned the Superintendent, with a slight suggestion of weariness and a distraught glance towards the door.