"Bring up the other men and their guns,"
he whispered fiercely to the nearest. Then he faced Stacy.
"Who are YOU to stop peaceful miners going to work on their own claim?"
he said coarsely. "I'll tell you WHO, boys," he added, suddenly turning
to his men with a hoarse laugh. "It ain't even the bank! It's only Jim
Stacy, that the bank kicked out yesterday to save itself,--Jim Stacy
and his broken-down pals. And what's the thief doing here--in Marshall's
tunnel--the only spot that Marshall can claim? We ain't no particular
friends o' Marshall's, though we're neighbors on the same claim; but we
ain't going to see Marshall ousted by tramps. Are we, boys?"
"No, by G-d!" said his followers, dropping the pans and seizing their
picks and revolvers. They understood the appeal to arms if not to their
reason. For an instant the fight seemed imminent. Then a voice from
behind them said:--
"You needn't trouble yourselves about that! I'M Marshall! I sent these
gentlemen to occupy the claim until I came here with the surveyor," and
two men stepped from a thicket of myrtle in the rear of Steptoe and
his followers. The speaker, Marshall, was a thin, slight, overworked,
over-aged man; his companion, the surveyor, was equally slight,
but red-bearded, spectacled, and professional-looking, with a long
traveling-duster that made him appear even clerical. They were scarcely
a physical addition to Stacy's party, whatever might have been their
moral and legal support.
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