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"Glad to know it." Briscoe laughed in suave triumph. "I thought

you might be. This description sounds some familiar. I'll not

read it all. But listen: 'Scar on right cheek, running from

bridge of nose toward ear. Trigger finger missing; shot away when

last arrested. Weight, about one hundred and ninety.' By the way,

just out of curiosity, how heavy are you, Mr. Johnson? 'Height,

five feet nine inches. Protuberant, fishy eyes. Long, drooping,

reddish mustache.' I'd shave that mustache if I were you,

Mr.--er--Johnson. Some one might mistake you for Nick Struve."

The man who called himself Johnson recognized denial as futile.

He flung up the sponge with a blasphemous oath. "What do you

want? What's your game? Do you want to sell me for the reward? By

thunder, you'd better not!"