"You do! By God, if you're trying to do the dirty on me——"
Greasy Jones flashed a hand to his hip.
"No, no. Hear me out, can't you?"
"Go ahead."
"All right. And keep your hand off your gun. See here, Mr. Jones. I got into Black Elk Territory about a month ago. I've spent most of my time going 'round having a look at things, with Discovery as my headquarters. Incidentally, I've got in on one or two good claims—but let that keep for a minute. The Mounted Police have given me a free hand to do as I pleased. They allow me to go through Hopeful Pass without question and so on. Just now, I'm supposed to be here looking up some goods of mine that have gone astray—not seeing you. You understand—a man in my position——"
"Yes. Go ahead. Cut it short!"
"Well, they don't suspect anything. Now listen. On the strict Q.T., I've sized up the situation along the creeks and down here in Prospect pretty well. And I've found this: there's a large number of men both sides the line that aren't satisfied with the way the Mounted Police are running things."
"That's right," muttered Greasy fiercely. "The yallah-legged sons o'——!"
"They aren't satisfied," pursued Welland, heedless of the interruption, "and they'd sweep them out of the country if they dared. A lot of men over there on the creeks aren't fit to hold their claims—rich claims. There are others who came into the country weeks after the majority and struck it rich, while the rest go begging. Now, that crowd of discontents along the creeks think this: those fellows who aren't fit to hold those fine rich claims should be told to get off. Those that came into the country last but struck it rich first should be made to hand over their claims, too. The first comers, and the strong men, the men that need the money, should have first show on all the gold on Discovery. That's the way they size it up in the Black Elk country."
"Well—what's that to do with me?"