The fat man was caught. He knew nothing about the technicalities of arrests. What the sheriff said might or might not be true. He tried a bluff. “This here’s an extra-territorial warrant that runs ex judicio,” he explained largely. “That so?” asked the sheriff ironically. “Well, it sure don’t hold water here. Bad men can’t get on the prod with me. No, siree!” The cage had descended to bring up a second load of miners. Meanwhile, the interest of the crowd centred on the dispute that had arisen. Those on the outskirts pressed forward, eager to hear what was being said. Sloan had fallen back and was whispering in the ears of a few choice spirits. Hugh spoke out straight and strong. His words were not for the sheriff, but for the judgment of the unbiased public. “I came here as an officer with a warrant to get this man. Three days ago he shot down from behind the best man in Nevada, Scot McClintock. Most of you know my brother, a first-class citizen and soldier. He ran this scalawag out of Virginia, and he made the mistake of not killin’ him right then. I’ve made that same mistake myself three times. Yet yore sheriff says I’m a bad man because I come here to arrest a fifteen-times murderer. How about that, boys?” The crowd was with Hugh at once. The Dodsons controlled the camp. A good many of these men were dependent upon them financially. But even Ralph Dodson was hardly popular. As for Dutch, their camp bully, everybody feared him and nobody trusted him. He was so confirmed a gunman that at any moment while in drink he might slay any of them. The sheriff had not volunteered to go down into the mine with one of the rescue parties; nor had Sloan or any of his cronies. But this young fellow with the fire-blackened face and hands, whose haggard eyes looked out with such quiet grim resolution, had gone into that hell below to save their friends. Byers, the man on his left, had been another of the rescuers. The fat man had volunteered three times and been rejected. “His warrant goes in Piodie,” someone shouted. “Sure does,” echoed another voice. “Not on yore tintype,” retorted the sheriff. “Ormsby County don’t run our affairs. Not none.” The Maine lumberjack lined up beside Hugh, an axe shaft in his hand. He had observed that Dodson and Sloan were gathering the camp toughs for a rescue. “His warrant’s good with me—good as the wheat,” the big woodsman said. “He made it good, boys, when he stood up to that hose nozzle down below and stuck there while he baked. He made it good again when he went in to the crosscut where our friends were trapped.” Sloan and his crowd moved forward. One of them spoke to the sheriff. “If you want to swear in some deputies to enforce the law, Dick, why, we’re right here handy.” From out of the crowd a girl darted, light as a deer. She stood directly in front of Hugh, face to face with the gunmen of the camp. A warm colour breathed in her cheeks. Her dark eyes flashed with indignation.