The younger man started in surprise.

“That is my name,” he replied, before Hicks could speak.  The sheriff looked toward him curiously, noting the square jaw, the steady gray eyes; then he glanced aside at Farnham.  The latter nodded carelessly.

“So far, so good.  By the same luck, have you a Swede here called Nels Swanson?”

Hicks shook his head in uncertainty.

“There ’s a Swede here, all right, who belongs ter the ‘Independence’ gang.  I don ’t know his name.”

“It’s Swanson,” put in Farnham, cheerfully.  “Those are the two birds you ’re after, sheriff.”

The latter official, as though fascinated by what he read there, never ventured to remove his watchfulness from the face of the engineer, yet he smiled grimly.

“Then I ’ll have to trouble you to trot out the Swede, Hicks,” he said, a distinct command in his voice.  “After he ’s here we ’ll get down to business.”

It was fully five minutes before the fellow arrived, his movements slow and reluctant.  From his language, expressing his feelings freely to Mike and Brown, who were engaged in urging him forward, it was evident he experienced no ambition to appear in the limelight.  The four men waiting his coming remained motionless, intently watchful of one another.  As the slowly moving Swede finally approached, Hayes ventured to remove his eyes from Winston just long enough to scan swiftly the mournful countenance, that single glance revealing to him the character of the man.  The latter gazed uneasily from one face to another, his mild blue eyes picturing distress, his fingers pulling aimlessly at his moustache.

“Ay ban yere by you fellers,” he confessed sorrowfully, unable to determine which person it was that wanted him.

“So I see,” admitted the sheriff laconically.  “Are you Nels Swanson?”

The fellow swallowed something in his throat that seemed to choke him.  This question sounded familiar; it brought back in a rush a recollection of his late controversy with Mr. O’Brien.  His face flushed, his eyes hardening.

“Ay ban Nels Swanson!” he exploded, beating the air with clenched fist.  “Ay ban Lutheran!  Ay ban shovel-man by Meester Burke.  Ay get two tollar saxty cint!  Ay not give won tamn for you!  Ay lick de fellar vot ask me dot again!”

The sheriff stared at him, much as he might have examined a new and peculiar specimen of bug.

“I don’t recall having asked you anything about your family history,” he said quietly, dropping one hand in apparent carelessness on the butt of his “45.”  “Your name was all I wanted.”  He tapped the breast of his coat suggestively, his gaze returning to Winston.

“Well, gents, we might as well bring this affair to a focus, although no doubt you two understand the meaning of it pretty well already.  I ’ve got warrants here for the arrest of Winston and Swanson.  I hope neither of you intend to kick up any row.”