“What? You don’t mean to say you’re not with me?” exclaimed the miner, suddenly turning on him and stopping abruptly in the street. “Are you for lettin’ ’em get away with it? Of course you ain’t! You always stick. Come on.”
They saw that the lights in the miners’ hall were out, and began a steady tour of the saloons in the vicinity. One of their own men was in one of them––Smuts, the blacksmith, cursing loudly and volubly as they entered.
“Them boys has always treated us white clean through,” he bawled, banging his fist on the bar, “and a lot of you pikers that don’t know nothin’ about the case sit around like a lot of yaps and let this Denver bunch pack the meetin’ and declare a strike. Then you let the same Denver bunch jump on poor old Bells, and hammer him to a pulp after they’ve hustled him out of the door, instead of follerin’ out to see that 188 he don’t get the worst of it. Bah! I’m dead sick of you.”
The partners had paused while listening to him, and he now saw them.
“Come out here, Smuts,” Dick said, turning toward the door, and the smith followed them.
“So they’ve ordered a strike on us, have they?” Dick asked.
“Yes,” was the blacksmith’s heated response; “but it don’t go for me! I stick.”
“Then if you’re with us, where is that Denver bunch?” Bill asked; and Dick knew that any effort to deter his partner from his purpose would prove useless.
“They all went down to the High Light,” the smith answered. “Have you seen Bells?”
“Yes, and taken care of him. Now I’m goin’ to take care of the man that done it.”