The ruffian shuffled across the road, snatched a bill from the old Negro, and with a hammer drove a tack through the middle of it. Out of the Mammoth walked a big well-dressed man without a hat. He had black glossy hair and a small black moustache. In his manner and bearing was that dominance which comes to those who are successful. With a glance he took in the situation. “Tear that bill down, Dutch,” he said crisply. The bad man looked at him, then at McClintock. Hugh laughed. “You hear yore master’s voice, Dutch.” Dutch ripped the bill down and tore it into a dozen pieces. Released from the mastery that had held him, he broke into savage furious oaths. At a word from the black-eyed man he would have fought it out with his enemy. But Ralph Dodson did not speak the word. His frowning attention was fixed on Hugh. “Mr. McClintock, the Mammoth is owned by me and my brother. If we want bills on the walls we’ll put them there. Understand?” he demanded arrogantly. Hugh bowed, almost as mockingly and as gracefully as Scot himself could have done it. “Quite. My fault, Mr. Dodson. I’ll explain. This knife was sheathed two nights ago in my arm. A scoundrel waited for me in a dark alley and tried to murder me.” “Interesting, no doubt, but not my business,” retorted Dodson curtly. “So I’m puttin’ up posters to find the owner of the knife.” “Not here. You can’t put ’em up here.” “Not necessary. Everybody here knows who owns the knife—or rather who did own it. It’s mine now, unless someone claims it. That all right with you, Dutch?” The killer said nothing, but he said it with bloodshot, vindictive eyes—eyes in which hate and fear and cunning and the lust to kill struggled for victory. Hugh turned on his heel and walked away, the sound of his footsteps sharp and ringing. Not once did he look back to see whether the murderer he had discredited would shoot him in the back. Yet he was glad when he was out of range. Experiments in the psychology of a killer might easily be carried too far. CHAPTER XX “LITTLE VICKY” Jim Budd had a dozen reasons to offer why there must be gold in Bald Knob. Like many others, he was letting his hopes influence his judgment. When he had finished his argument Hugh grinned. “May be here. May not. A fifty to one bet I’d call it, us on the short end. But that’s mining. No can tell. Might as well stick up our notice here as anywhere. What say, Dan?” Byers said, “Suits me.” “What about this fellow Singlefoot Bill who took up the claims originally—sure he’s outa the country and won’t make a kick?” “Handed in his checks last year at Austin. Anyhow, he never did any assessment work here. You can see that. Just filed his location notice and let it go at that,” Budd explained. “Didn’t he patent any of his claims?” “I reckon. But not these. He couldn’t have. There’s not been enough work done on the ground. He jest scratched around.”