Pop Howes’ mine, the American Beauty, was about a mile from town on the south side of the mining gulch where the walls became sheer and closed in. At the foot of the slope he had built a small three-room shack where he and his wife lived. Back of this were the barns, a donkey engine, and a narrow building where his Mexican workers formerly ate and slept. But the bunk house was now deserted, the engine silent. No work was going on in the shaft.

For thirty years Pop Howes had worked and saved; now he had been robbed and was broke. He had exhausted his credit at the bank. His eyes were bitter as they stared at the empty buildings.

The gulch had been formed by a cataclysm that had split a mountain when the world was young. On the north side of the gulch was the El Dorado Mine that was making a fortune for its owners. Pop Howes believed that the El Dorado lode extended through the whole mountain, on the south as well as the north side of the gulch, and that if he could run his shaft down another hundred feet, to the same level as the El Dorado shaft, he, too, would strike a rich, ore-bearing vein.

Jim Allen, who had accompanied Pop from town, glanced with ready sympathy at the old man’s brooding face. “So the bank wouldn’t give yuh a nickel?” he asked.

“Not a nickel, darn ’em! They was only too glad to loan me five thousand last year, but now they acts as if I was wantin’ to steal money from ’em!” Pop cried wrathfully.

“Maybe they figger if they don’t lend yuh no money they’ll get the mine an’ a fortune on the mortgage,” the ragged one said thoughtfully.

“Of course that’s it. That young fellow that they sent here knew his onions; he spent a week measurin’ an’ clippin’ rock from this side an’ then goin’ over yonder an’ doin’ the same thing,” Pop sputtered. “An’ if it hadn’t been for them darned quartz thieves what cleaned me out last week, I’d never have had to ask the bank for no money!”

The two reached the house and entered a long, low room where they found Mrs. Howes waiting for them. She was a thin, frail woman of fifty. Her face was lined and her hair snow-white, but her eyes still had the cheerful courage of the woman who has been taught by life to take the good with the bad. One look at her husband’s face and she knew his trip to the county seat had been unsuccessful.

Experience had taught her that disappointment is easier to bear on a full stomach, so she bustled into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a dish of venison stew. She placed this on the table and added a plate of hot biscuits and a pot of coffee.

When the men returned from washing up she had already piled their plates high with the steaming stew. Pop Howes slumped into his chair and gloomily told himself he was to lose the chance of a fortune, after thirty years’ labor, for the lack of only a few dollars.

It was not that he minded so much for himself, but his wife, who had stood by him through all sorts of hardships, loneliness, and the bitterest poverty, deserved some reward. Not that she had ever complained, though he had noticed at times a wistful look in her eyes and even the traces of tears. He knew that she wanted to visit again those relatives of hers in the East whom she had not seen since the days of her marriage. And recently, when they had thought they would soon strike the lode, soon have money, she had looked forward to it with a new longing.

Hardly had the two men finished their dinner when a messenger arrived with the news that a miners’ meeting was to be held that evening at the hotel.

“Bill Tucker sent up north an’ asked one of them gun-slingin’ sheriffs to come an’ help ketch the quartz thieves,” the messenger explained.

“Never knew Bill Tucker had enough sense to do that. Always figgered him as the dumbest town marshal I ever see,” Pop Howes grunted.

He arose, buckled on his gun, took his coat and hat from the peg behind the door, and filled his pipe. After he had lighted it he turned to the messenger and asked thoughtfully:

“Who’s this gun-slingin’ hombre?”

“Jack-twin Allen, the Wyoming sheriff.”

Pop Howes glanced at the small figure sitting by the fire, started to speak, thought better of it, and clumped from the room. The messenger followed.

The woman glanced curiously at Jim Allen, but her curiosity was tinged by sympathy and understanding. After a moment she asked falteringly:

“He’s your brother?”

“Yeh. Twin brother.” The voice was toneless, flat.

“An’—have you spoken to him?” she asked. At the sight of his face she instantly regretted her words.

“Naw, an’ I don’t reckon I will. ’Cause, yuh see, Jack’s here on business, an’ he can’t go cavortin’ about with a disreputable gent like me. Reckon I’ll pull out pronto.”

Jim Allen was grinning now and he spoke with assumed indifference, but the woman saw behind the mask.

“Let me tell yuh somethin’, ma’am. Jack Allen is the darnedest, fightingest gent I ever see. Let me tell yuh what he done now.”

Enthusiastically Allen poured out praises of his brother’s courage, his skill, and the wonderful things he had accomplished. But the more he praised his brother, the more the woman understood his grief. Jim-twin Allen was an outlaw, with a fortune on his head; his brother was an officer of the law—the gulf between the two was insurmountable.

When Pop Howes arrived at the hotel he found “Hard-rock” Hogan and Bill Tucker, the town marshal, waiting for him. Tucker was a powerfully built man with a round, red face, a large mouth, and small gray eyes.

“Howdy, Pop!” he cried jovially. “We sent for Baldy Kane, Steven Brandon, ‘Two-finger’ Smith, and some of the other boys. Bill Tucker sent up North and asked Jack-twin Allen—yuh’ve heard of him, yes?—well, Bill asked him to come on down here to help ketch these here quartz robbers. Well, he’s here now, feedin’ his face, an’ he’ll be in here pronto.”

Bill Tucker cultivated a hearty, jovial manner, and, as the different owners and managers of mines in the gulch arrived, he greeted each one like a long-lost brother. Steve Brandon, the manager of the El Dorado, was one of the last to arrive.

He was a short, heavy man with gray hair and a close-cropped mustache. When he spoke he snapped out his words like pistol shots. Shortly after Steve Brandon arrived, Baldy Kane slid into the room. He nodded to those present, and then his face became an expressionless, claylike mask. He silently drifted into a dark corner.

“I hears tell that this here Jack Allen is faster than his brother Jim,” Bill Tucker boomed.

“Not any,” Pop declared shortly but emphatically.

“Wonder if the two speak? It’s darn funny—Jack comes here to clean up this town, an’ here is Jim, his brother, the best of all the jailbirds.” The marshal chuckled as if he found the situation amusing.

Hard-rock Hogan was one of the men who had worked in and about mines since early childhood; he had lived all his life among rough, violent men, and his experience with human nature was vast. He had discovered that many men used words to hide their thoughts, while others cultivated a masklike face after the manner of Baldy Kane. He glanced curiously at Bill Tucker.

Now he saw only the tragedy that lay beneath the meeting of two brothers in such circumstances, and he wondered if the town marshal had been aware the two would meet when he sent his invitation to Jack Allen. He was curious as to that, but he was more curious as to the reason behind the invitation; he was reasonably sure Tucker had some hidden motive. Hogan was still pondering the matter when the door opened and Jack Allen entered.

The famous Wyoming sheriff and United States marshal was cool and collected. His eyes swept the room and rested on each man in turn. Most of the miners met his searching gaze unflinchingly. But there were one or two men there who hastily looked away, for they had a feeling that Allen’s rather hard brown eyes might read more than they cared to tell. Bill Tucker stepped forward and introduced Allen to the assembly.

“Howdy, gents!” Jack greeted them.

They murmured a reply, then all grew silent.

“Suppose yuh give me a line on what’s been goin’ on here,” the little man suggested.

“It’s this way,” Bill Tucker explained. “The placers has been givin’ out an’ there ain’t nothin’ but quartz mining hereabouts now. About eight mines are workin’ sinkin’ shafts. The veins are darned thin but mighty rich. About four months ago some gang started stealin’ quartz, an’ since then every darn mine has been robbed.”

“On the quiet or with guns?” Allen interrupted.

“Sometimes one, sometimes the other. The last time this here gang worked they held up the American Beauty—about a week ago—shot one guard, locked up the workers, and made off with about four thousand dollars in quartz,” the town marshal explained.

“When did you find out about it?” Jack Allen asked.

Pop Howes cut into the conversation. “I was stayin’ in town that night with my wife an’ went out to the mine about daylight. I find a young Mex kid I left in the house, gunned proper, an’ the rest locked up, so I come into town an’ fetched Bill Tucker.”

“Yuh track ’em? Where did they go?”

“Yeh, I follered them clear to the head of the canyon an’ then come back. Yuh see, I’m town marshal, an’ we got a tough bunch of hombres hangin’ aroun’ here, so I got to sorter stick close to town an’ not go trackin’ across the mountains.” Bill Tucker flushed beneath Allen’s direct appraisal and floundered in his explanation.

“Why for d’yuh let these here tough hombres hang aroun’?” Allen asked quickly.

“Why for? ’Cause—why, there’s a bunch of ’em, an’ I sorta figgered to let the past slide, so long as the boys behaved,” Bill Tucker said uneasily. His eyes refused to meet Jack Allen’s direct gaze and glanced furtively about the room.

“All right. The first thing to do, then, is to make a list of all the gents what is not workin’, an’ all them who have a reward on ’em or are known to be bad ones, an’ tell ’em to get out of town,” the Wyoming sheriff said quietly.

“Would yuh put your brother, Jim Allen, on that list?” Steve Brandon barked.

“Yes!” Jack Allen snapped.

The miners regarded Allen curiously. Instinctively they knew he spoke the truth and would lock his own brother in jail if called upon to do so in the line of duty. Here was a man who made a fetish of honesty. Some of them had heard of him by reputation. Honest, hard, relentless in his pursuit of outlaws, he was known to be just. He cared nothing about the rewards for the outlaws he sought; having cleaned up a town or county, he would silently fade away, none the richer for his work.

After a general discussion, it was agreed that Jack Allen was to be given a free hand in the gulch. For a long while Bill Tucker insisted he should have authority within the town limits, but at length he was forced to give way and to agree to take orders from Allen.

Later, as Hard-rock Hogan and Pop Howes were walking up the starlit gulch toward their homes, they both chuckled as they recalled Bill Tucker’s expression when Jack Allen questioned him.

“Bill sorta showed up as a windbag, didn’t he?” the old prospector remarked.

“Yeh, Jack Allen is sure enough a little hellion on wheels.” Hard-rock grinned his admiration.

“How come yuh persuaded Bill to write to him?” asked Pop.

“I ain’t supposed to say, but it was Steve Brandon who got me to prod Bill to get Jack Allen,” Hard-rock answered, after a moment’s hesitation.

When Pop Howes entered the living room he found Jim-twin Allen waiting for him. Pop laughed as he related what had happened at the miners’ meeting that night.

“An’ yuh say it was Steve Brandon who started gettin’ Jack down here?” Allen asked curiously.

“Yeh. Steve sure has a head on him. Reckon he don’t want it known for fear these here quartz robbers will get after him.”

“Listen, Pop. I’ve been thinkin’. That night they robbed yuh—yuh say the kid they downed was dressed in his underclothes an’ wasn’t armed?”

“Yeh.”

“Did yuh ever think that maybe some one downed that kid, figgerin’ it was you—an’ done it for a purpose?” Allen asked.

Pop Howes frowned and stared thoughtfully into the fire.

“Jim, I reckon you’re correct. An’ that means that gang is workin’ for some one who knows I’m due to strike it rich an’ wants to cash me in so he can buy my claim off the old woman for almost nothin’!”

“Well, I figgers I’ll bunk here, an’, if they comes ag’in, I’ll give ’em a surprise.” Allen grinned cheerfully.

Pop Howes lay awake for a long time that night. He racked his brain despairingly, trying to think of some way by which he could raise the money to continue his operations and at the same time pay the bank its interest on the mortgage. The more he puzzled, the more hopeless it seemed. He was within a few feet of riches and, for the want of a few dollars, would be forced to watch some one else profit by his work. He thought of his wife, sleeping quietly beside him—how patient she had been, how hard working! Time after time she had been forced to work like a slave while he was in the mountains prospecting. And now what good had it done?

Pop turned back to bed. His wife tossed restlessly and moaned in her sleep.