"What the hell is it yer want, then?" he asked sullenly. Hayes smiled,
shifting easily so as to rest his weight on one leg.
"Got anybody in your bunch named Winston?" he questioned, "Ned Winston,
mining engineer?"
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.