"What for? See here, Pete, cool down. Can’t you see if I go after him he’ll get suspicious—and then good-bye to everything. You leave this deal to me. He’ll sign. Larry’s drawing the lease and bond now. Maybe to-morrow——" "To-morrow? To-morrow will be too late. That’s what I’m gettin’ at. Max is ugly——" Wray clenched his bony fingers over the chair arm and leaned across the desk. "Max!" he whispered angrily. "What——?" "He’s afther more money. He talked pretty big last night, but this mornin’——" He broke off breathlessly. "Oh, I’ve had the h—l of a day——" "What did he say?" "He’s talkin’ of goin’ to the mine owner. He says, after all, Cort Bent never harmed him any, and it’s only a matter of who gives him the most." Wray got to his feet and took two or three rapid turns up and down the room. "D—n him!" he muttered. And then suddenly, "Where is he now?" "Up the bar playing pinochle with Fritz." "Are you sure?" "He was twenty minutes ago. I haven’t left him a minute except to come here. Fritz is losin’ money to him. I told him to. That will kape him for a while." But Wray had already taken up his hat. "Come, let’s go up there. We’ve got to shut his mouth some way," he said, through set lips. "I’ve been promisin’ myself sick, but he’s a sharp one—God! But I wish them papers was signed," sighed Mulrennan. As they passed through the office Jeff stopped a moment. "If Bent comes in, Larry, tell him I’ll be back in half an hour. Understand? Don’t seem anxious. Just tell him I’m going to Denver and want to settle that deal one way or another as soon as possible." Berkely nodded and watched the strange pair as they made their way up the street. Wray, his head down and hands in his pockets, and the Irishman using his arms in violent gestures. "I’m _sure_ it’s an ugly duckling," commented the sage. * * * * * It was three years now since Berkely had come to Colorado for his health, and two since Fate had sent him drifting down to Mesa City and Jeff Wray. Mesa City was a "boom" town. Three years ago, when the "Jack Pot" mine was opened, it had become the sudden proud possessor of five hotels (and saloons), three "general" stores, four barber shops, three pool rooms, a livery stable, and post office. Its main (and only) street was a quarter of a mile in length, and the plains for a half mile in every direction had been dotted with the camps of the settlers. It had almost seemed as if Saguache County had found another Cripple Creek. A time passed, and then Mesa City awoke one morning to find that the gamblers, the speculators, and the sporting men (and women) had gone forth to other fields, and left it to its fate, and the town knew that it was a failure.