the affair blew over, and he could return in safety to brow-beat his
accusers, as was his wont. But this had not been so easy as he had
imagined; his prosecutors were bitter, and his enforced seclusion had
been prolonged week by week until the fracas which ended in the shooting
of the sheriff had apparently closed the door upon his return to
civilization forever. Only here was his life and person secure. For
Wynyard's Bar had quickly succumbed to the domination of his reckless
courage, and the eminence of his double crime had made him respected
among spendthrifts, gamblers, and gentlemen whose performances had
never risen above a stage-coach robbery or a single assassination. Even
criticism of his faded luxuries had been delicately withheld.

He was leaning over his open trunk--which the camp popularly supposed
to contain State bonds and securities of fabulous amount--and had taken
some letters from it, when a figure darkened the doorway. He looked up,
laying his papers carelessly aside. WITHIN Wynyard's Bar property was
sacred.

It was the late fugitive. Although some hours had already elapsed since
his arrival in camp, and he had presumably refreshed himself inwardly,
his outward appearance was still disheveled and dusty. Brier and
milkweed clung to his frayed blouse and trousers. What could be seen of
the skin of his face and hands under its stains and begriming was of
a dull yellow. His light eyes had all the brightness without the
restlessness of the mongrel race. They leisurely took in the whole
cabin, the still open trunk before the major, and then rested
deliberately on the major himself.

"Well," said Major Overstone abruptly, "what brought you here?"