The blond giant, Siegfried--who was not a Swede, but a Norwegian--announced that he was seventeen dollars in the game himself. Tommie, already broke, and an onlooker, reported sadly. “Sixty-one for me, durn it!” Jed picked up a lamp, led the way to the other room, and closed the door behind them. “I thought it might interest you to know that there's a new arrival in the valley, Mr. Struve,” he said smoothly. “Who says my name's Struve?” demanded the man who called himself Johnson, with fierce suspicion. Briscoe laughed softly. “I say it--Wolf Struve. Up till last month your address for two years has been number nine thousand four hundred and thirty-two, care of Penitentiary Warden, Yuma, Arizona.” “Prove it. Prove it,” blustered the accused man. “Sure.” From his inside coat pocket Jed took out a printed notice offering a reward for the capture of Nick Struve, alias “Wolf” Struve, convict, who had broken prison on the night of February seventh, and escaped, after murdering one of the guards. A description and a photograph of the man wanted was appended. “Looks some like you. Don't it, Mr.--shall I say Johnson or Struve?” “Say Johnson!” roared the Texan. “That ain't me. I'm no jailbird.” “Glad to know it.” Briscoe laughed in suave triumph. “I thought you might be. This description sounds some familiar. I'll not read it all. But listen: 'Scar on right cheek, running from bridge of nose toward ear. Trigger finger missing; shot away when last arrested. Weight, about one hundred and ninety.' By the way, just out of curiosity, how heavy are you, Mr. Johnson? 'Height, five feet nine inches. Protuberant, fishy eyes. Long, drooping, reddish mustache.' I'd shave that mustache if I were you, Mr.--er--Johnson. Some one might mistake you for Nick Struve.” The man who called himself Johnson recognized denial as futile. He flung up the sponge with a blasphemous oath. “What do you want? What's your game? Do you want to sell me for the reward? By thunder, you'd better not!” Briscoe gave way to one of the swift bursts of passion to which he was subject. “Don't threaten me, you prison scum! Don't come here and try to dictate what I'm to do, and what I'm not to do. I'll sell you if I want to. I'll send you back to be hanged like a dog. Say the word, and I'll have you dragged out of here inside of forty-eight hours.” Struve reached for his gun, but the other, wary as a panther, had him covered while the convict's revolver was still in his pocket. “Reach for the roof! Quick--or I'll drill a hole in you! That's the idea. I reckon I'll collect your hardware while I'm at it. That's a heap better.” Struve glared at him, speechless. “You're too slow on the draw for this part of the country, my friend,” jeered Briscoe. “Or perhaps, while you were at Yuma, you got out of practice. It's like stealing candy from a kid to beat you to it. Don't ever try to draw a gun again in Lost Valley while you're asleep. You might never waken.”