Beth Norvell

He turned silently away from her, leading the pony forward, his head

bent low, his shoulders stooped. There was a dejection apparent about

the action which her eyes could not mistake. She touched him

pleadingly.

"You no ver' angry Mercedes, señor?"

Brown half turned about, and rested one great hand upon her soft hair

in mute caress.

"N-no, little girl, it a-ain't that," he admitted slowly. "Only I 'm

b-blamed if I jest e-exactly grasp yer s-style. I reckon I 'll kn-know

what yer mean s-sometime."

Could he have seen clearly he might have marked the swift, hot tears

dimming her eyes, but he never dreamed of their presence, for her lips

were laughing.

"Maybe so, señor, maybe. I glad you not angry, for I no like dat. Eet

vas nice I fool you so; dat vas vat make de men lofe, ven dey not know

everyting. Ven day know dem maybe eet all be over vid. So maybe I

show you sometime, maybe not--quien sabe?"

If her lightly spoken words hurt, he realized the utter futility of

striving then to penetrate their deeper meaning. They advanced slowly,

moving in more closely against the great ridge of rocks where the

denser shadows clung, the man's natural caution becoming apparent as

his mind returned to a consideration of the dangerous mission upon

which they were embarked. To-morrow would leave him free from all

this, but now he must conduct her in safety to that mist-shrouded plain

below.

They had moved forward for perhaps a dozen yards, the obedient pony

stepping as silently as themselves, Mercedes a foot or two to the rear,

when Brown suddenly halted, staring fixedly at something slightly at

one side of their path. There, like a huge baleful eye glaring angrily

at him, appeared a dull red glow. An instant he doubted, wondered, his

mind confused. Tiny sparks sputtered out into the darkness, and the

miner understood. He had blindly stumbled upon a lighted fuse, a train

of destruction leading to some deed of hell. With an oath he leaped

recklessly forward, stamping the creeping flame out beneath his feet,

crushing it lifeless between his heavy boots and the rock.

There was an angry shout, the swift rush of feet, the red flare of a

rifle cleaving the night with burst of flame. In the sudden, unearthly

glare Brown caught dim sight of faces, of numerous dark figures leaping

toward him, but he merely crouched low. The girl! he must protect the

girl! That was all he knew, all he considered, excepting a passionate

hatred engendered by one of those faces he had just seen. They were

upon him in mass, striking, tearing like so many wild beasts in the

first fierceness of attack. His revolver jammed in its holster, but he

struck out with clenched fists, battering at the black figures, his

teeth ground together, his every instinct bidding him fight hard till

he died. Once they pounded him to his knees, but he struggled up,

shaking loose their gripping hands, and hurling them back like so many

children. He was crazed by then with raging battle-fury, his hot blood

lusting, every great muscle strained to the uttermost. He realized

nothing, saw nothing, but those dim figures facing him; insensible to

the blood trickling down the front of his shirt, unconscious of wound,

he flung himself forward a perfect madman, jerking a rifle from the

helpless fingers of an opponent, and smiting to right and left, the

deadly-iron bar whirling through the air. He struck once, twice; he

saw bodies whirl sidewise and fall to the ground. Then suddenly he

seemed alone, panting fiercely, the smashed rifle-stock uplifted for a

blow.