It's jist as I said about going home, you know," he added with desperate
recklessness.

"Thar's a man," said Abner Dean lazily, "ez sez you never went home.
Thar's a man ez sez you've been three years in Sonora. Thar's a man ez
sez you hain't seen your wife and daughter since '49. Thar's a man ez
sez you've been playin' this camp for six months."

There was a dead silence. Then a voice said quite as quietly,--

"That man lies."

It was not the old man's voice. Everybody turned as Henry York slowly
rose, stretching out his six feet of length, and, brushing away the
ashes that had fallen from his pipe upon his breast, deliberately placed
himself beside Plunkett, and faced the others.

"That man ain't here," continued Abner Dean, with listless indifference
of voice, and a gentle pre-occupation of manner, as he carelessly
allowed his right hand to rest on his hip near his revolver. "That man
ain't here; but, if I'm called upon to make good what he says, why, I'm
on hand."

All rose as the two men--perhaps the least externally agitated of them
all--approached each other. The lawyer stepped in between them.

"Perhaps there's some mistake here. York, do you KNOW that the old man
has been home?"

"Yes."