Men talked war. Brains were feverishly racked for strategy, and for historical accounts of a similar situation in which a town rose to arms and took the law into its own hands. Stories flew from lip to lip, and, as is usual under such stress, so did the convivial glass. And the result which followed was quite in keeping with the occasion. Quarrels and bickerings occurred, which kept the place at fever-heat until the store closed down for the night and the supply of liquor was cut off. Then slumber brought its beneficent opiate to distracted nerves. Throughout it all Minky kept his head level. Whatever he felt and thought, he had nothing to offer on the altar of public suggestion. He knew that of all these irresponsible debaters he had the most to lose. Nor did he feel inclined to expose anything of the risk at which he stood. It was a depressing time for him, so depressing that he could see very little hope. His risk was enormous. He felt that the probability was that this raiding gang were well enough posted as to the store of gold he held in his cellars. He felt that, should James or any of his people decide upon a coup, the attack would be well timed, when the miners were out at their work, and he and the camp generally were left defenseless. What could he do? He must rid himself of the "dust" somehow. He must dispose of it secretly. A hiding--that seemed to him, amidst his trouble, to be the only thing. But where? That was the thing. He must consult Bill. To his mind Bill was the only man upon whom he could place any real reliance, upon whose judgment he could depend. So, with his shrewd eyes ever on the watch for strangers amongst his customers, he longed for the hours to pass until he could close his store and seek the gambler in his hut. In the meantime Wild Bill had cut himself off from his fellows, spending the long evening hours in the solitude of his humble dwelling. The man was strangely calm, but his fierce eyes and pale face told of an enormous strain of thought driving him. His mind was sweeping along over a series of vivid pictures of past events, mixed up with equally vivid and strongly marked scenes of possible events to come. He was reviewing silently, sternly, a situation which, by some extraordinary kink in his vanity, he felt it was for him to assume the responsibility of. He felt, although with no feeling of pride, that he, and he alone, could see it through. The fact of the matter was that, by some strange mental process, James' doings--his approach to the camp, in fact his very existence--had somehow become a direct individual challenge to him. Without acknowledging it to himself, he in some subtle way understood that everything this desperado did was a challenge to him--a sneering, contemptuous challenge to him. James was metaphorically snapping his fingers under his very nose.