you." He glanced significantly toward the service revolver that dangled in its holster. The man still smiled.
"But, you've got to sleep. Suppose the others don't get back for three or four days?"
"They'll be here today, or tomorrow at the latest," answered the boy.
"Maybe they will, and maybe they won't. That gang may keep them busy for a couple of days. I have an idea they're bad actors."
It was Connie's turn to smile. "Oh, you have an idea, have you? Well, you ought to know."
"Yes, I ought to, but I don't—that is, not all of them. He paused and Connie waited for him to proceed. "Look here, kid, who do you think I am?"
Connie shook his head. "Search me! You said you are Hank Dubro. I am guessing that you are the boss of the whisky-runners. I took a look at your sluice—so I know you're no prospector."
The woman laughed, and the other man turned his scowling face toward the group. "Tell him!" she urged.
"I'll admit, kid, the name was a fake, and so was the prospector bluff. I never worked in the gold
