“Didn’t et strike ye thet mebby Juniper Joe told ther truth, and that we’re lettin ’ther very critter we’re after git erway?” “I am yoost t’inking dot mineselluf,” said the baron; though he did not seem excited. Buffalo Bill produced a flat pocketbook, and extracted from it a tintype picture. It was of a miner, in red shirt and clay-stained trousers, leaning on the handle of a miner’s pick. He looked at it closely; then passed it to Nomad. The round-bodied German climbed out of his chair, and came over to inspect it with Nomad, looking over the trapper’s shoulder. “Waal, et’s powerful hard ter decide a matter like thet,” said Nomad. “This hyar was taken all o’ five y’ars ago, I reckon; and ’tain’t anything much of a pickcher. Yet put the clo’es this hyar Jackson Dane war w’arin’ outer ther man in this, an’ et might be ther same feller.” “Aber dhey tond’t look der same, idt mighdt pe,” confessed the baron; “budt dhis veller he iss vearin’ a musdache.” “’Twouldn’t be hard ter shave et off, I reckon,” Nomad reminded. The resemblance between the man in the tintype and Jackson Dane could not be said to be marked. Both were apparently of about the same size, the stature of the man in the tintype being judged by the height of the pick. They had been told that the original of the picture was light-haired and blue-eyed. So was Jackson Dane. The man in the tintype was the outlaw and road agent, Tim Benson. They had come to Blossom Range looking for him. Two weeks before he had been working the Blossom Range stage trails, taking heavy toll. He had, likewise, not hesitated to lay his hands on valuables carried in Uncle Sam’s mail bags; for which reason Buffalo Bill had been sent on his trail. From the vicinity of Blossom Range he had skipped into other territory; then had been heard of in Deming; when last seen, he was said to be making back toward Blossom Range. That was about all that the scout knew, and it was little enough. Five years before, Tim Benson had been a miner, in a little place near Virginia City; it was there he had this picture taken, by a traveling tintype artist, leaning on his miner’s pick. “Vale,” said the baron, “I am sduck! Vot ar-re ye going to do?” “I think I shall try for a talk with Juniper Joe,” said the scout. “Et might jump suthin’ outer ther bresh,” Nomad agreed. “Eenyhow,” the baron added, “I am hobing dot soon ve vill pe scaring oop some adwentures dot haf a liddle excidemendts in ’em.” They were still talking the thing over, the little man not having been gone ten minutes, when the scout had another visitor, who came to the door of his room at the Eagle House, and knocked. Again Nomad drew open the door. All were surprised to see the object of their talk--Juniper Joe, tall and thin, dressed in his black broadcloth, the tails of his coat suspiciously lifted by the big revolvers that rested against his hips. He looked carefully at the scout’s companions; then came on in, when invited.