Farley was on his feet now, missing nothing that the big man said, no gesture he made.
“My name is Farley,” he returned for himself. “A miner. I came into this country prospecting. Had a bad fall, and your daughter took care of me.”
“Prospecting?” Dalton laughed unpleasantly. “Don’t you know, young man, that this country, every foot of it, has been gone over and over during the last twenty years, and nothing ever found? Prospecting!” He strode by Farley towards the cabin, muttering, “So they come right under our nose and prospect!”
As he went, Farley’s eager eyes saw the hunting-knife which swung unscabbarded from his belt—a knife more than usually broad-bladed; and his heart sank. Little as he liked the looks of this man, he had prayed that he prove to be innocent of Johnny Watson’s blood. At the door Dalton stopped and swung about, looking steadily, deep into Farley’s eyes.
“When did you get here?” he asked shortly. “How long have you been here?”
“I came five days ago—the day you left.”
“Where did you come from?”
“From the coast. Then from Three Sisters and the Yellow Queen country, where I’ve been prospecting.”
“What brought you in here? Don’t you know that this country has been combed over a hundred times—that there is nothing here?”