"Well," he said, "I guess it isn't, but you just let me know when you want any debts collected. I figure I could be quite smart at it."
"They do it with a gun in your country?" asked Leger.
Tomlinson held up a hard and distinctly large-sized hand. "No, sir! If ever I get that on one of the fakirs who sling ink at us I guess I'll make my little protest."
There was silence for a minute or two, and during it the beat of hoofs came out of the valley. They drew nearer, and Tomlinson laughed softly as he glanced at the listeners' faces.
"Hall Sewell! He's coming back," he said.
"Mr. Sewell is across the divide ever so far away," said Hetty.
"Well," said the big prospector, "that cayuse of his is coming up the trail 'most too played out to put its feet down."
It was five minutes later when Sewell appeared leading the horse, which was in almost as sorry a case as he was. His jean garments hung about him torn to rags, and his face was gaunt and drawn with weariness and hunger. He stood still, smiling at them, in the uncertain light of the fire.
"I've come back—warned off by the police as usual," he said. "In the language of the country, nobody seems to have any use for me."
The naive admission appealed to Hetty as much as the signs of privation, which were plain upon him, did, and stirred her more than any account of a successful mission would have done. Sewell was, perhaps, aware of this, for he had the gift of pleasing women.