He leaped ashore as the tug ran close to an out-jutting point of high land below Garman's, and cut straight across the prairie toward his camp. The sunburst of dawn was at its gaudiest when he came within sight of the tents and he caught the glint of sun on the bare matchets of the clearing gang as the men prepared for the day's work. Higgins was standing before his tent, smoking and chafing the men.
"Everything all right, Hig?" asked Roger with false calm.
"All right? Sure. Why wouldn't it be?" Higgins took the pipe from his lips and looked closer.
"Hi! What's up? What's happened to you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you don't have to tell me, of course; but—but what in the name of smoked fish makes you look as if you'd been through the Devil's Playground again?"
Higgins breathed hard after Roger had completed the tale of Garman's man hunt.
"That's a damn lie about Ramos!" he said. "If he's dead Garman's gang killed him—-Garman himself probably—afterwards."
"How do you know?"
"Willy High Pockets has been here."