"Them boys has always treated us white clean through," he bawled, banging his fist on the bar, "and a lot of you pikers that don't know nothin' about the case sit around like a lot of yaps and let this Denver bunch pack the meetin' and declare a strike. Then you let the same Denver bunch jump on poor old Bells, and hammer him to a pulp after they've hustled him out of the door, instead of follerin' out to see that he don't get the worst of it. Bah! I'm dead sick of you." The partners had paused while listening to him, and he now saw them. "Come out here, Smuts," Dick said, turning toward the door, and the smith followed them. "So they've ordered a strike on us, have they?" Dick asked. "Yes," was the blacksmith's heated response; "but it don't go for me! I stick." "Then if you're with us, where is that Denver bunch?" Bill asked; and Dick knew that any effort to deter his partner from his purpose would prove useless. "They all went down to the High Light," the smith answered. "Have you seen Bells?" "Yes, and taken care of him. Now I'm goin' to take care of the man that done it." The blacksmith banged a heavy hand on the superintendent's shoulder. "Bully for you! I'm with you. We'll go together!" he exclaimed, and at once led the way toward the flaming lights of the High Light but a few doors below. Dick nerved himself for the inevitable, and grimly walked with them as they entered the doors. As they stood there, with the big miner in front, a sudden hush invaded the babel of noise, and men began to look in their direction. The grim, determined man in the lead, glaring here and there with cold, terrible eyes, was too noticeable a figure to escape observation. The set face of his partner, scarcely less determined, and the smith, with brawny, clenched hands, and bushy, black brows drawn into a fierce scowl, completed the picture of a desperate trio come to avenge. "You're the man I'm after," suddenly declared Bill, pointing a finger at Thompson, of Denver, who had been the center of an admiring group. "You're the one that's responsible for old Bells. Let's see if you or any of your bunch are as brave with a younger man. Come outside, won't you?" When first he began to speak, in that silky, soft rumble, Thompson, who was nearly as large as Mathews, assumed an air of amused disdain; but before the speech was ended his face went a little white. "Oh, go on away, you drunken loafers!" he said, half-turning, as if to resume his conversation.