“That you, Miss Margaret?” the mine-owner called.
Neither she nor Struve answered. The latter had stopped and was waiting tensely his enemy's approach. When he was within a few yards of the other Dunke raised his candle and peered into the blackness ahead of him.
“What's the matter? Isn't it you, Miss Peggy?”
“No, it ain't. It's your old pal, Nick Struve. Ain't you glad to see him, Joe?”
Dunke looked him over without a word. His thin lips set and his gaze grew wall-eyed. The candle passed from right to left hand.
Struve laughed evilly. “No, I'm not going to pay you that way—not yet; nor you ain't going to rid yourself of me either. Want to know why, Mr. Millionaire Dunke, what used to be my old pal? Want to know why it ain't going to do you any good to drop that right hand any closeter to your hip pocket?”
Still Dunke said nothing, but the candle-glow that lit his face showed an ugly expression.
“Don't you whip that gun out, Joe Dunke. Don't you! 'Cause why? If you do you're a goner.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I kept the letter you wrote me seven years ago, and have put it where it will do you no good if anything happens to me. That's why you won't draw that gun, Joe Dunke. If you do it will send you to Yuma. Millionaire you may be, but that won't keep you from wearing stripes.”