The bridge-workers shifted uncomfortably on their feet.  Then a voice exclaimed: 

“Don’t worry, boss.  We’ll make it somehow.”

“Thorn says there’s nobody over there,” Murray continued; “but that seems strange, for I happen to know of half a dozen outfits at the head of the White River.  Jack Dalton has had a gang working there for four years.”

Dalton was a famous character in the north—­one of the most intrepid of the early pioneers—­and the mention of his name brought a hush.  A large part of the audience realized the truth of O’Neil’s last statement, yet resented having it thrust upon them.  Thorn and Baker were scowling.  Gray had just entered the room and was signaling to his chief, and O’Neil realized that he must score a triumph quickly if he wished to hold the attention of his men.  He resumed gravely: 

“If this strike was genuine I wouldn’t argue, but—­it isn’t.”  A confusion of startled protests rose; the two miners burst out indignantly; but O’Neil, raising his voice for the first time, managed to make himself heard.  “Those jewelry samples came from Nevada,” he cried.  “I recognized them myself this afternoon, and here’s another fellow who can’t be fooled.  Thorn told you he used to work in Goldfield.  You can draw your own conclusions.”

The temper of the crowd changed instantly:  jeers, groans, hisses arose; the men were on their feet now, and growing noisier every moment; Baker and Thorn were glaring balefully at their accuser.  But Gray succeeded in shouldering his way forward, and whispered to O’Neil, who turned suddenly and faced the men again.  “Just a minute!” he shouted.  “You heard Thorn say he and Baker went prospecting in August.  Well, we’ve just had Cortez on the cable and learn that they were working for Gordon until two weeks ago.”  A sudden silence fell.  Murray smiled down at the two strangers.  “What do you say to that?”

Thorn flew into a purple rage:  “It’s a damned lie!  He’s afraid you’ll quit work, fellows.”  Viciously he flung himself toward the door, only to feel the grasp of the muscular physician upon his arm.

“Listen to this message from the cashier of the Cortez Home Bank!” bellowed Gray, his big voice dominating the uproar.  Undisturbed by his prisoner’s struggles, he read loudly: 

“Joe Thorn and Henry Baker quit work fifteenth, leaving for Fairbanks over winter trail, with five dogs—­four gray and white malamutes, black shepherd leader.  Thorn medium size, thirty-five, red hair.  Baker dark, scar on cheek.  Wilson, Cashier.”

The doctor’s features spread into a broad grin.  “You’ve all seen the dog-team, and here’s the red hair.”  His fingers sunk into his prisoner’s fiery locks with a grip that threatened to leave him a scalp for a trophy.  Thorn cursed and twisted.

The crowd’s allegiance had been quick to shift, but it veered back to O’Neil with equal suddenness.

“Bunco!” yelled a hoarse voice, after a brief hush.