A loud guffaw broke from the group. Passers-by stopped for an instant, saw what had happened, shrugged their shoulders and went on about their business. The miner with a mock bow thrust his revolver back into its holster. “That ought to help you locate it, Curly. Think you’ll be able to find your way there now, or do I gotta send a guide along with you so’s you won’t git lost?” The stranger gazed toward the house a moment, then turned to his informer. His face preserved its pleasant expression; but it was paler, and his eyes held a little gleam. “I suppose there are people living there,” he said. “Your supposition is in accord with the law an’ the evidence in the case,” the other replied. “That disinspirin’ mansion has the honor to contain the major an’ Ramapo’s pride an’ joy, his daughter.” “Then, of course, there was a chance that your clever manner of pointing it out might have resulted in killing one of them.” “Them little accidents has been known to happen here, Curly. But us inhabitants o’ this thrivin’ city don’t lose no sleep over no such uninteristin’ reflections. Y’see, we git whisky here for a dollar a throw, an’ life for nothin’; so we natcherly figgers as how the former ought to git considerable more respect an’ attention. Life ain’t at no high premium here, Curly.” The stranger’s gray eyes had not left those of the man before him. “It mustn’t be,” he said pleasantly, “when they permit you to live here—you drunken dog!” He calmly reached for his baggage. At the words a little murmur went up from the group. It shifted expectantly. The face of the miner went black with wrath, and his lip curled back from his discolored teeth in a vicious snarl. His revolver again flashed from its holster. Over on the side of the crowd some one laughed. “’Fore y’kill it, Williams,” the voice said, “ask it where it wants the remains shipped to. Maybe its maw is pinin’ for it somewheres, an’ might git angry if it was put away without no nice flowers an’ oratory an’ sech like.”