There was a little, much worn memorandum book, with many
pencil-scribbled entries in it, and upon the fly leaf it bore the name
of Seth Powers, the man who had been robbed in Gold Run and who had been
found beaten into unconsciousness. There was a small tin can; in the
bottom of it some pine pitch, and adhering to the pitch a fine sifting
of gold dust. A can, he knew, Ben Broderick would identify as the one
of which he had been robbed! There were other articles, two more
watches, a revolver, an empty purse, which he could not identify but
which he realized keenly would be identified when the time came.
Suppose that the time came now! Suppose that he should hear the
sheriff's voice calling upon him, that a posse should come upon him and
find him with this box in his possession! What chance would he have?
His face went white with the anger which surged up within him and the
desire leaped up, strong and bitter, to get in his two hands the man who
had framed him and to choke the treacherous life out of him. Then,
suddenly, he was cool again, seeing the present danger and the urgent
need of prompt action.
First he made certain that there was no other damning bit of false
evidence concealed in the hay or any where in the loft.
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