CHAPTER XIII.
BENSON ACTS.
The quiet little man who came along the prison wall and turned toward the high barred gate, peered before him curiously, then stopped before the gate and looked at it.
He was dressed neatly in a suit of light English tweed, wore eyeglasses, a tall hat, and had a vacant air. Any one seeing him would have said he was a high-browed college professor or scientist who had strayed out of his proper range. All but Gopher Gabe. Having sighted him from his saloon over the way, Gopher Gabe came to the door with some of his patrons, and opined wisely that the stranger scanning the prison gate was “one of these yere newspaper writers, lookin’ for somethin’ to write up.”
In that, Gopher Gabe was a prophet; though his ability at accurate forecasting had been gained by a recognition of the clothing as the same which White-eyed Moses had taken out to the Ute village the day before, and the fiddler’s statements on his return.
Finding the way open as far as the prison office, the stranger entered it and fished out his card, which he threw on the desk of Matt Shepard.
Shepard, a bushy-browed man with keen eyes, whose heels were at the moment lifted to the top of the desk, looked at the card, then at the little man. Though he had seen Tim Benson, there was no recognition in his eyes.
“Well, what is it?” he asked.
“You can see by that I am a representative of the San Francisco Oracle,” said the little man quietly. “I am studying the prison systems of the West, and want to look this one over. When I publish my article I shall have a good word to say of you personally, I hope.”
“Never heard of this hyer San Francisco Oracle,” said Shepard severely, though his tone was milder than before.
“Well, it’s the leading paper of its kind in the city of San Francisco,” the little man assured him. “Sorry I neglected to bring a copy with me, but I have some down at the Eagle House, and will see that you have one. In last week’s issue I had a write-up of the Comstock Mine, at Virginia City.”