“The truth is,” he said, “though likely you won’t believe it, that I lost everything in that hotel fire at Deming, where I was last week; just got out by the skin of my teeth; so that my extra clothing and everything else went up in smoke.” “Er, waugh!” Nomad gulped. “You think that is fishy?” “I didn’t say et!” the trapper apologized. “Et’s jes’ a way I has o’ breathin’ hard, at times.” “You haven’t any letters which you have received since?” Buffalo Bill questioned. “Well, yes: just one!” Jackson Dane pulled out what seemed at first a letter, but was discovered to be an envelope from which the letter was gone; it bore the postmark of Blossom Range, and the date of that very day. “I got this letter here this morning, soon after I struck the town,” he explained. The scout looked at the envelope, noting that it bore the address of “Mr. Jackson Dane, Blossom Range,” but that it held no letter. “I see,” he said; but his tone was noncommittal. “That’s all I’ve got right now, in the way of credentials,” said the little man. “You’ll pardon me for saying,” said the scout quietly, “that since Juniper Joe tried to kill you because he claimed you are Tim Benson, it would hardly be politic for me to enter into any arrangements with you, of the kind you mention.” Jackson Dane flushed slightly. “Sorry you look at it in that way,” he said. “But for that fire in Deming, I could prove who I am, even to your satisfaction.” He sat in hesitation, looking from one to the other. Then he seemed about to put on his hat. “Just what do you know about Juniper Joe?” the scout inquired of him. “No more than what everybody else knows here in the town, I reckon: he has struck it rich in his mine, has taken a wife, and is celebrating. I can’t say that I admire his judgment, that’s all.” “In taking a wife in that way?” “Just so. What does he know about her? She answers his advertisement, which says that he is rich, and comes on. Mebby they’ll git along together; but the chances are that they’ll be fighting like cats and dogs inside of a month. I know that all of life is a gamble; yet I wouldn’t take fool risks.” He put on his hat, and arose to go. “Sorry, gents, that we can’t make a hitch,” he said. “But I can ask this of you: Don’t mention it so’s Juniper Joe will know I’ve been here. As he seems convinced that I’m Tim Benson, I reckon I’ll have to keep out of his sight; or else get myself ready to shoot quicker than he can. I don’t care to get into trouble here in this town, as that would interfere with the work that brought me.” He turned to the door. Nomad sat, crouched, as if he thought of hurling himself at the stranger and stopping him. But as Buffalo Bill made no movement, the trapper held his impulse in check; and Jackson Dane, of Frisco, wended his way down the stairs in peace. “Er, waugh!” Nomad gurgled, when he was gone. “Waugh!” “Well, out with it, if it hurts you,” the scout told him.