Bud sent some of the men scouting around for an extra lamp. “I wonder who shot the lamp out,” the Marshal queried, “it wasn’t done by anybody in this room.” “I did,” the dwarf spoke up, grinning exultantly. “I was in the cellar and fired through a hole in the floor. Then while the fight was going on I crawled through the window.” “And well I know it,” Mason said ruefully, “he crept up on me and had me nearly strangled before I knocked him on the head with my gun. He must have a skull like iron.” The Marshal after a brief struggle snapped a pair of handcuffs on the dwarf’s wrists. “You are too dangerous a person to be at large, my most excellent engraver. “This dwarf,” he continued, “was Ricker’s chief engraver.” Then, noticing Mason’s wound, he called Jean Barry, his deputy, to examine his arm. Jean made a thorough examination. “Your arm isn’t broken, luckily; as near as I can tell the bullet just grazed the bone in the elbow,” he announced cheerfully, as Mason had winced as he handled the injured arm. “Well, it felt as though it was broken, I can’t raise it up,” Mason said grimly. The Marshal was keenly interested. He seemed worried about Mason’s injury, and watched Jean as he put a crude bandage around the injured member. “Bud,” the Marshal spoke up, “I propose we take a general inventory of our men and see how many wounded we have and how bad their injuries are. In the meantime we will send to the Post for a doctor. Who will volunteer to go?” “I will,” Scotty spoke up eagerly; “young Mason here did me a good turn when he nailed Jim Haley, and I want to return the favor.” “All right, Scotty, go ahead,” Bud agreed; “isn’t far to the Post, and while you’re gone we’ll look this ranch over.” As most of the injured had received only slight flesh wounds, the Marshal and Bud undertook to examine the cellar and premises. The Marshal paused as they were about to commence their search and watched Jean Barry, who was dressing the men’s wounds. “Jean, after you get the men’s wounds dressed, you had better go and bring in Ricker’s guard,” he said reflectively. “I’ve got Tug Conners bound securely,” he added, “but I had to tap him on the head first, and he may be suffering.” Ricker had been jerked to his feet none too gently by one of Bud’s men and placed on a table with his back to the wall. The look of fear in his eyes had died out, and he was regarding the Marshal with a look of hate. “Who the hell are you, anyway?” he burst out savagely. “I’ve seen you before, somewhere in the East.” The Marshal turned to the counterfeiter with a grim smile. “Right, you are, my counterfeiting friend,” he answered suavely, “perhaps I can refresh your memory.” Into his eyes came a look of reminiscence. “Follow me back ten years,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on Ricker, “to a little den on the East Side in New York. There had been a gang of counterfeiters shoving the queer, and they were operating around New York and neighboring cities.