They unrolled the pack, and threw the clean clothing about. Then, opening the pocket-knife, they proceeded to pry about the soles and heels of the boots, and to cut open the lining of the clothing. So they found the ten dollars in the belt, which they tossed onto the table with the other belongings. Then the personage with the shield announced, “I fine you twelve dollars and sixty-seven cents, and your watch and knife.” He added, with a grin, “You can keep your snot-rags.”
“Now see here!” said Hal, angrily. “This is pretty raw!”
“You get your duds on, young fellow, and get out of here as quick as you can, or you'll go in your shirt-tail.”
But Hal was angry enough to have been willing to go in his skin. “You tell me who you are, and your authority for this procedure?”
“I'm marshal of the camp,” said the man.
“You mean you're an employé of the General Fuel Company? And you propose to rob me—”
“Put him out, Bill,” said the marshal. And Hal saw Bill's fists clench.
“All right,” he said, swallowing his indignation. “Wait till I get my clothes on.” And he proceeded to dress as quickly as possible; he rolled up his blanket and spare clothing, and started for the door.
“Remember,” said the marshal, “straight down the canyon with you, and if you show your face round here again, you'll get a bullet through you.”
So Hal went out into the sunshine, with a guard on each side of him as an escort. He was on the same mountain road, but in the midst of the company-village. In the distance he saw the great building of the breaker, and heard the incessant roar of machinery and falling coal. He marched past a double lane of company houses and shanties, where slattern women in doorways and dirty children digging in the dust of the roadside paused and grinned at him—for he limped as he walked, and it was evident enough what had happened to him.