“But this is all free country, isn’t it?”
“It is not. No person may intrude upon this property, sir. You are welcome to water and food if your needs be such, and I am fain of your company. Kindly instruct your knaves to move as I have said.”
For a moment Logan met the gravely firm gaze of Shea, then turned and lifted his hands to his mouth. He shouted something in the patois, to which the two natives waved assent. They turned their car and took it to the rock that marked the limit of Mrs. Crump’s location in the cañon. Logan began to roll a cigarette with deft fingers.
“Prospecting hereabouts, I presume?” he inquired. “I didn’t get your name.”
Shea found himself warming to the cultivated accents.
“My name, sir, is Shea.”
“W-whew!” A long whistle broke from Logan, whose thin lips parted in a smile. “So you’re the man! I heard about you at Zacaton City last night. They say you cleaned up Aimes and his crowd for giving you a drink, and that you threatened to do worse to any man who offered you one again! Good thing I didn’t do it, eh? Glad to meet you, Shea. I’m set against liquor myself. You’ve sure become famous in this part of the country!”
Thady Shea did not altogether like the swarthy features and the odd contrast between steely eyes and coarse black hair, but he did like applause. He took the stranger down to the shacks and when Logan set about cooking an excellent dinner, Shea was delighted.
Over their meal the two men conversed at length, chiefly on the subject of mining. Tom Logan asked no questions about Number Sixteen, but he formed the private opinion that Thady Shea was earnest, upright, and a simpleton. Two thirds of this diagnosis was correct. The other third was destined to make trouble for Tom Logan.
At last, over their third pipe, Logan yawned.