“Good day, gentlemen,” began Steele, a smile coming to his lips in spite of the seriousness of the crisis, as he thought that this sombre, silent gang in the midst of the mountains bore a comical resemblance to the gnomes in Rip Van Winkle when that jovial inebriate appeared amongst them. “I take it, sir, that you are leader here, and I think there has been some mistake. During today’s journey I have been forced to travel to this mine against my will. You seem to have been expecting me. Now, what’s up?”
“You’ll be, in about ten minutes,” replied the boss. “Dakota Bill, where’s your rope?”
“Here it is,” said Bill, stepping forward and exhibiting a slip-noose at the end of about thirty feet of stout line.
“Now, stranger, if you’ve got any messages to leave your friends, we’ll give you ten minutes to write or say them.”
“I’ve no messages, thank you, but I am disturbed by a lively curiosity to know what all this means.”
“Oh, of course you’ve no suspicion about what it means, have you?”
“No, I have not.”
“You never saw your mine before, did you?”
“It isn’t my mine.”
“I knew you’d say that. Well, now, we’ve been left here for four months without a markee of pay. For the last month we would have starved if it hadn’t been for Dakota Bill’s good work with a rifle; but even the game has fled from this accursed place and now we are starving. You’re the man responsible, and you know it. We’ve sworn to hang you, and we’re going to hang you.”