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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.

“I’ll tell you,” said Warden. “Buckskin Bill, the cattle-thief, was in a tight corner, and he took refuge in Barren Valley. He found the smugglers’ cache–and he found something else that the smugglers didn’t know of. He found–gold. It’s a queer thing, boys, but he’d decided–for private reasons–to give up the cattle-lifting just two days before. The police were hot after him, but they didn’t catch him and the smugglers didn’t catch him either. He dodged ’em all, and when he left he said to himself, ‘I’ll be the boss of Barren Valley when I come back.’ After that he went West and starved a bit in the Australian desert till the cattle episode had had time to blow over. Then–it’s nearly two years ago now–he came back. The first person he ran into was–Fletcher Hill, the policeman.”

He paused with that dramatic instinct which was surely part-secret of his fascination. He had caught the full attention of the crowd, and held them spellbound.

In a moment he went on. “That gave him an idea. Hill, of course, was after other game by that time and didn’t spot him. Hill was a magistrate and a civil power at Wallacetown. So Bill went to him, knowing he was straight, anyway, and told him about the gold in Barren Valley, explaining, bold as brass, that he couldn’t run the show himself for lack of money. Boys, it was a rank speculation, but Hill was a sport. He caught on. He came to Barren Valley, and they tinkered round together, and they found gold. That same night they came upon the smugglers, too–only escaped running into them by a miracle. Hill didn’t say much. He’s not a talker. But after they got back to Wallacetown he made an offer to Buckskin Bill which struck him as being a very sporting proposition for a policeman. He said, ‘If you care to take on Barren Valley and make an honest concern of it, I’ll get the grant and do the backing. The labour is there,’ he said, ‘but it’s got to be honest labour or I won’t touch it.’ It was a sporting offer, boys, and, of course, Bill jumped. And so a contract was drawn up which had to be signed. And ‘What’s your name?’ said Fletcher Hill.” Warden suddenly began to laugh. “On my oath, he didn’t know what to say, so he just caught at the first honest-sounding name he could think of. ‘Fortescue,’ he said. Hill didn’t ask a single question. ‘Then that mine shall be called the Fortescue Gold Mine,’ he said. ‘And you’ll work it and make an honest man’s job of it.’ It was a pretty big undertaking, but it sort of appealed to Buckskin Bill, and he took it on. The only real bad mistake he made was when he trusted Harley. Except for that, the thing worked–and worked well. The smuggling trade isn’t what it was, eh, boys? That’s because Fortescue–and Fletcher Hill–are using up the labour for the mine. And you may hate ’em like hell, but you can’t get away from the fact that this mine is run fair and decent, and there isn’t a man here who doesn’t stand a good chance of making his fortune if he plays a straight game. It’s been a chance to make good for every one of us, and it’s thanks to Fletcher Hill–because he hasn’t asked questions–because he’s just taken us on trust–and I’m hanged if he doesn’t deserve something better than a bullet through his brain, even if he is a magistrate and a policeman and a man of honour. Have you got that, boys? Then chew it over and swallow it! And when you’ve done that, I’ll tell you something more.”