There was a degree of haughtiness in her tone that Redburn did not dream she possessed.

The “General” rubbed the end of his nose, chuckled audibly, then laughed, outright.

“I opine this ar’ a free country, ain’t it, marm, more or less?  When a feller kerflummuxes rite down onter a payin’ streek I opine he’s goin’ ter roost that till he gits reddy to vamoose, ain’t he?”

“But, sir, my brother was the first to discover this spot and build us a home here, and he claims that all belongs to him.”

“He do? more or less—­consider’bly less of more than more uv less, eh?  Yas, I kno’ yer brother—­leastways hev seen him an’ heerd heeps about him.  Letters uv his name spell Ned Harris, not?”

“Yes, sir; but how can you know him?  Few do, in Deadwood.”

“Nevyer mind that, my puss.  Ole Walsingham Nix do kno’ a few things yet, ef he ar’ a hard old nut fer w’ich thar is not cra’kin’.”

Anita looked at Redburn, doubtfully.

“Brother would be very angry if he were to return and find this man here, what would you advise?”

“I am of the opinion that he will have to vacate,” replied Harry, decidedly.

“Nix cum-a-rouse!” disagreed the old prospecter.  “I’m hayr, an’ thar’s no yearthly use o’ denyin that.  Barrin’ ye ar’ a right peart-lookin’ kid, stranger, allow me ter speculate thet it would take a dozen, more or less—­consider’bly less uv more than more o’ less—­ter put me out.”

Redburn laughed heartily.  The old fellow’s bravado amused him.  Anita however, was silent; she put dependence in her protector to arrange matters satisfactorily.

“That savors strongly of rebellion,” Redburn observed, sitting down upon a lounge that stood hard by.  “Besides, you have an advantage; I would not attack you; you are old and unfitted for combat; deformed and unable to do battle.”

“Exactly!” the “General” confidently announced.

“What good can come of your remaining here?” demanded Anita.

“Sit down, marm, sit down, an I’ll perceed ter divest myself uv w’at little information I’ve got stored up in my noddle.  Ye see, mum, my name’s Walsingham Nix, at yer sarvice—­Walsingham bein’ my great, great grandad’s fronticepiece, while Nix war ther hind-wheeler, like nor w’at a he-mule ar’ w’en hitched ter a ‘schooner.’  Ther Nix family were a great one, bet yer false teeth; originated about ther time Joner swallered the whale, down nigh Long Branch, and ’ve bin handed down frum time ter time till ye behold in me ther last surrivin’ pilgrim frum ther ancestral block.  Thar was one remarkable pecooliarity about ther Nix family, frum root ter stump, an’ ther war, they war nevyer known ter refuse a gift or an advantageous offer; in this respeck they bore a striking resemblance ter the immortell G’orge Washington.  G’orge war innercent; he ked never tell a lie.  So war our family; they never hed it in their hearts to say Nix to an offer uv a good feed or a decoction o’ brandy.