“I got this letter here this morning, soon after I struck the town,” he explained.
The scout looked at the envelope, noting that it bore the address of “Mr. Jackson Dane, Blossom Range,” but that it held no letter.
“I see,” he said; but his tone was noncommittal.
“That’s all I’ve got right now, in the way of credentials,” said the little man.
“You’ll pardon me for saying,” said the scout quietly, “that since Juniper Joe tried to kill you because he claimed you are Tim Benson, it would hardly be politic for me to enter into any arrangements with you, of the kind you mention.”
Jackson Dane flushed slightly.
“Sorry you look at it in that way,” he said. “But for that fire in Deming, I could prove who I am, even to your satisfaction.”
He sat in hesitation, looking from one to the other. Then he seemed about to put on his hat.
“Just what do you know about Juniper Joe?” the scout inquired of him.
“No more than what everybody else knows here in the town, I reckon: he has struck it rich in his mine, has taken a wife, and is celebrating. I can’t say that I admire his judgment, that’s all.”