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"Last week, gents," said Shipton in his easy style, "we hit it rich out at the Gallup Bonanza. Pocket or ledge, we're not saying which right now. But we got the stuff. We been keeping it quiet until we got good and ready to spring something. I had the choice specimens in a box in my shack. That Mexican's been prowling around; I couldn't be sure until I'd glimpsed the specimens, but I just looked 'em over. That's the story; Mexicali, being half drunk and stupid generally, made his haul out of my specimen box."

As the first slow murmur, gathering volume, began, Jim Taggart threw up his hand and shouted:

"Now, men, go slow! I've seen a pack of gents before now get all het-up because they was sore and disappointed. And I can read the eye-signs! But pull off and think things over before you make a lot of howling fools out of yourselves. If you want me any time.... Well, I'll be right on hand!"

He stepped back swiftly, in through the open door, and it closed after him.

For a little while the men remained uncertain. Jim Taggart represented the law; further, he was no man at any time to trifle with. He had offered them an explanation and the worst of it was that it might be the truth. Discussions began on every hand; those who believed were in the minority and lost voice as the other voices, becoming heated, grew louder. Babe Deveril was turning away when a man caught at his sleeve.