Enright’s mouth was open, but no sound came from his lips; he seemed to be gasping for breath.

“I merely mention this,” went on Westcott slowly, “to help you grasp the situation.  We have a rough, rude way of handling such matters out here.  Now Lacy and I have got a little affair to settle between us and, being a fair-minded man, he sent for me to talk it over.  However, he realises that an argument of that nature might easily become personal and that if anything unpleasant occurred he would require a witness.  So he arranges to have you present.  Do you see the point, Mr. Enright?”

The lawyer’s eyes sought Lacy, and then returned to the stern face confronting him.  His lips sputtered: 

“As—­as a witness?”

“Sure; there may be honour among thieves, but not Lacy’s kind.”  He strode forward and with one hand crunched Enright back into his chair.  “Now, listen to me,” he said fiercely.  “I’ve got only one word of advice for you:  don’t take any hand in this affair, except as a peacemaker, for if you do, you are going to get hurt.  Now, Bill Lacy, I’m ready to talk with you.  I was down in your shaft last night.”

The saloonman lit a cigar and leaned back in his chair.

“I ought to have thought of that, Westcott,” he admitted.  “Still, I don’t know that I give a damn.”

“The work hadn’t been left in very good shape, and I found the cross tunnel and measured it.  You are within a few feet of my vein.  The county surveyor ought to have been out there two hours ago.”

Lacy straightened up, all semblance of indifference gone, an oath on his lips.

“You cur!  You filed complaint?  When?”

“At seven o’clock this morning.  We’ll fight that out in the courts.  However, that isn’t what I came here for at all.  I came to ask you a question and one of you two are going to answer before I leave—­keep your hand up, and in sight, Lacy; make another move like that and it’s liable to be your last.  I am not here in any playful mood, and I know your style.  Lay that gun on the desk where I can see it—­that’s right.  Now move your chair back.”

Lacy did this with no good grace, his face purple with passion.  Westcott had been too quick, too thoroughly prepared for him, but he would watch his opportunity.  He could afford to wait, knowing the cards he had up his sleeve.

“Some considerable gun-play just to ask a question,” he said tauntingly, “must be mighty important.  All right, what is it?”

“Where did your man Moore take Miss Donovan last night?”

CHAPTER XXI:  THE MARSHAL PLAYS A HAND