Adam walked on, shortening himself a little more, quickening his stride. When he reached and passed the shelter under which lay packs and coats and guns he suddenly quivered, as if released from dragging restraint. The robber of slight frame and hard face had walked out from under the shelter. He alone had been silent. He had peered keenly, bending a little. “Hey, is thet you, Bill?” he queried, with hard voice which suited his face. The gaunt robber cracked his whip. “Fellars, air we locoed by this hyar dust? Damn the deceivin’ light!... Too big fer Bill--er I’m blind with heat!” “_It ain’t Bill!_” screeched the little man, and he bounded toward where lay the guns. Adam dropped the buckets. Down they thudded with a splash. Two of his great leaps intercepted the little man, who veered aside, dodged, and then tried to run by. Adam, with a lunge and a swing, hit him squarely on the side of the head. The blow rang soddenly. Its tremendous power propelled the man off his feet, turning him sidewise as he went through the air, and carried him with terrific force against one of the shelter posts, round which his limp body seemed to wrap itself. Crash! the post gave way, letting the roof sag. Then the smitten man rolled to lodge against a pack, and lay inert. Whirling swiftly, Adam drew his gun, and paused a second, ready to rush. The robbers stood stock-still. “My Gawd!” hoarsely yelled the red-shirted one. “Who’s thet?... Did you see him soak Robbins?” Dismukes let out a stentorian roar of joy, of hate, of triumph. Like a chained elephant he plunged to escape. Failing that, he surged down to yell: “Aha, you bloody claim jumpers! Now you’re done! It’s Wansfell!” “_Wansfell!_” flashed the gaunt-faced villain, and that gaunt face turned ashen. “Grab a shovel! Run fer a gun!”