Hartwell paused, looking distantly at the speaker. He was not actively conscious of him, hardly of his words. The operator, not understanding, went on with more assurance.
"I know Jack Haskins. This ain't the first time he's been called on to help out in this kind of a racket, you bet! He's shipped you a gang that 'ud rather fight than eat. All you've got to do is to say 'sick 'em' and then lay back and see the fur fly."
Hartwell turned away without a word and went to his rig. He got in and drove straight for the mill. His mind was again made up. This time it was made up aright. Only—circumstances did not allow it to avail.
As he drove away he did not notice a man in miner's garb who looked at him sharply and resumed his way. The operator was still on the platform as the man came to a halt. He was deriving great satisfaction from the crackling new bill which he was caressing in his pocket. The new bill would soon have had a companion, had he kept quiet, but this he could not know.
Glancing at the miner, he remarked, benevolently:
"Smelling trouble, and pulling out, eh?"
"What do you mean?" The new-comer looked up stupidly.
"Just this. I reckon you've run up against Jack Haskins's gang before, and ain't hankering for a second round."
"Jack Haskins's gang comin'?" There was an eagerness in the man's manner which the operator misunderstood.
"That's what, and a hundred strong."