“I’m not sure about that--we’ll put it up to our lawyers. Maybe they’ll call it conspiracy, maybe blackmail. They’ll make it whatever carries a long enough sentence.” “And before I enter my plea, would you mind letting me see the letter I’m supposed to have written.” “Oh, you’ve heard about the letter, have you?” said the camp-marshal, lifting his eyebrows in mild surprise. He took from his desk a sheet of paper and handed it to Hal, who read: “Dere mister Stone, You don’t need worry about the check-wayman. Pay me twenty five dollars, and I will fix it right. Yours try, Joe Smith.” Having taken in the words of the letter, Hal examined the paper, and perceived that his enemies had taken the trouble, not merely to forge a letter in his name, but to have it photographed, to have a cut made of the photograph, and to have it printed. Beyond doubt they had distributed it broadcast in the camp. And all this in a few hours! It was as Olson had said--a regular system to keep the men bedevilled. SECTION 19. Hal took a minute or so to ponder the situation. “Mr. Cotton,” he said, at last. “I know how to spell better than that. Also my handwriting is a bit more fluent.” There was a trace of a smile about the marshal’s cruel lips. “I know,” he replied. “I’ve not failed to compare them.” “You have a good secret-service department!” said Hal. “Before you get through, young fellow, you’ll discover that our legal department is equally efficient.” “Well,” said Hal, “they’ll need to be; for I don’t see how you can get round the fact that I’m a check-weighman, chosen according to the law, and with a group of the men behind me.” “If that’s what you’re counting on,” retorted Cotton, “you may as well forget it. You’ve got no group any more.” “Oh! You’ve got rid of them?” “We’ve got rid of the ring-leaders.” “Of whom?” “That old billy-goat, Sikoria, for one.” “You’ve shipped him?” “We have.” “I saw the beginning of that. Where have you sent him?” “That,” smiled the marshal, “is a job for _your_ secret-service department!” “And who else?” “John Edstrom has gone down to bury his wife. It’s not the first time that dough-faced old preacher has made trouble for us, but it’ll be the last. You’ll find him in Pedro--probably in the poor-house.” “No,” responded Hal, quickly--and there came just a touch of elation in his voice--“he won’t have to go to the poor-house at once. You see, I’ve just sent twenty-five dollars to him.” The camp-marshal frowned. “Really!” Then, after a pause, “You _did_ have that money on you! I thought that lousy Greek had got away with it!” “No. Your knave was honest. But so was I. I knew Edstrom had been getting short weight for years, so he was the one person with any right to the money.” This story was untrue, of course; the money was still buried in Edstrom’s cabin. But Hal meant for the old miner to have it in the end, and meantime he wanted to throw Cotton off the track.