“That will do, Dave,” nodded Murray and after another look at Denver, the guard turned back towards the tent.
“Judas priest,” observed Denver thrusting out his lip at the guard, “he’s a regular gun-fighting boy. You must have something pretty good hid away here somewhere, to call for a guard like that.”
“He’s a dangerous man,” replied Murray briefly, “I’d advise you not to rouse him. But what do you think of our district, Mister–er─”
“Russell,” said Denver promptly, “my name is Denver Russell. I just came over from Globe.”
“Glad to meet you,” answered Murray extending a hairy hand, “my name is B. B. Murray. I’m the owner of all this ground.”
“’S that so?” murmured Denver, “well don’t let me keep you.”
And he started off down the trail.
“Hey, wait a minute!” protested Murray, “you 78don’t need to go off mad. Sit down here in the shade–I want to have a talk with you.”
He stepped over to the shade of an abandoned cabin and Denver followed reluctantly. From the few leading questions which Mr. Murray had propounded he judged he was a hard man to evade; and, until he had got title to the claim on Queen Creek, it was advisable not to talk too much.
“So you’re just over from Globe, eh?” began Murray affably, “well, how are things over in that camp? Yes, I hear they are booming–were you working in the mines? What do you think of this country for copper?”