The man he addressed looked at him with a cowed expression on his hairy face.  “I never wanted to interfere with her,” he growled.  “But she’s protecting that damned policeman.  It’s her own fault for getting in our way.”

“You’re wrong then!” flashed back Warden.  “Fletcher Hill is under my protection, not hers.  He has surrendered to me as my prisoner.”

“You’ve, got him?” shouted a score of voices.

“Yes, I’ve got him.”  Rapidly Warden made answer.  “But I’m not going to hand him over to you to be murdered out of hand.  If I’m boss of Barren Valley, I’ll be boss.  So if any of you are dissatisfied you’ll have to reckon with me first.  Fletcher Hill is my prisoner, and I’ll see to it that he has a fair trial.  Got that?”

A low murmur went round.  The magnetism of the man was making itself felt.  He had that electric force which sways the multitude against all reason.  Single-handed, he gripped them with colossal assurance.  They shrank from the flame of his wrath like beaten dogs.

“And before we deal with him,” he went on, “there’s someone else to be reckoned with.  And that’s Harley.  Does anyone know where Harley is?”

“What do you want with Harley?” asked Benson, glad of this diversion.

“Oh, just to tell him what I think of him, and then—­to kick him out!” With curt contempt Warden threw his answer.  “He’s a traitor and a skunk—­smuggles spirits one minute and goes to the police to sell his chums the next; then back to his chums again to sell the police.  I know.  I’ve been watching him for some time, the cur.  He’d shoot me if he dared.”

“He’d better!” yelled a huge miner in the middle of the crowd.

Warden laughed.  “That you, Nixon?  Come over here!  I’ve got something to tell you—­and the other boys.  It’s the story of this blasted mine.”  He turned suddenly to the girl who still stood behind him in the lighted doorway.  “Miss Burton, I’d like you to hear it too.  Shut the door and stand by me!”

Her shining eyes were on his face.  She obeyed him mutely, with a submission as unquestioning as that of the rough crowd in front of them.

Very gently he took the revolver from her, drew one out of his own pocket also, and handed both to the big man called Nixon who had come to his side.

“You look after these!” he said.

“One is my property.  The other belongs to Fletcher Hill—­who is my prisoner.  Now, boys, you’re armed.  I’m not.  You won’t shoot the lady, I know.  And for myself I’ll take my chance.”

“Guess you won’t be any the worse for that,” grinned Nixon, at his elbow.

Warden’s smile gleamed for an instant in answer, but he passed swiftly on.  “Did you ever hear of a cattle-thief called Buckskin Bill?  He flourished in these parts some five years ago.  There was no mine in Barren Valley then.  It was just—­a smugglers’ stronghold.”

Some of the men in front of him stirred uneasily.  “What’s this to do with Fletcher Hill?” asked one.