“Who the hell are you, anyway?” he burst out savagely. “I’ve seen you before, somewhere in the East.”
The Marshal turned to the counterfeiter with a grim smile.
“Right, you are, my counterfeiting friend,” he answered suavely, “perhaps I can refresh your memory.”
Into his eyes came a look of reminiscence.
“Follow me back ten years,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on Ricker, “to a little den on the East Side in New York. There had been a gang of counterfeiters shoving the queer, and they were operating around New York and neighboring cities.
“I was called in from another case I had been working on, and after long search succeeded in tracing the counterfeiters to this little den I speak of. In making the capture of the ringleader, part of my disguise was torn off, and that is the reason you remember me. In the excitement of the struggle you escaped, and I sent one of my men after you.”
Ricker was regarding the Marshal sullenly, his face working in violent spasms mingled with fear with hate.
“He trailed you to Baltimore,” the Marshal continued relentlessly, “and as he was attempting your arrest you sent a bullet through his head. After that, you disappeared and all efforts of my men failed to locate you.
“A short time ago, however, and through the efforts of my deputy, Jean Barry, I learned that you had headed for the West. As there has been a quantity of counterfeit money circulating in the East, I sent Jean Barry, who had at one time been a cowboy, out here to look you up.
“In the course of time, Jean Barry had evidence enough against you to warrant my suspicions, so I came out here and worked with him. This is your last attempt at counterfeiting, Ricker, for you will be tried for the murder of my detective.”