Bob Hampton of Placer

Brant sprang forward, all doubt regarding this young woman instantly

dissipated by those final words of mischievous mockery. She had been

playing with him as unconcernedly as if he were a mere toy sent for her

amusement, and his pride was stung.

But pursuit proved useless. Like a phantom she had slipped away amid

the underbrush, leaving him to flounder blindly in the labyrinth. Once

she laughed outright, a clear burst of girlish merriment ringing

through the silence, and he leaped desperately forward, hoping to

intercept her flight. His incautious foot slipped along the steep edge

of the shelving bank, and he went down, half stumbling, half sliding,

until he came to a sudden pause on the brink of the little stream. The

chase was ended, and he sat up, confused for the moment, and half

questioning the evidence of his own eyes.

A small tent, dirty and patched, stood with its back against the slope

of earth down which he had plunged. Its flap flung aside revealed

within a pile of disarranged blankets, together with some scattered

articles of wearing apparel, while just before the opening, his back

pressed against the supporting pole, an inverted pipe between his

yellow, irregular teeth, sat a hideous looking man. He was a withered,

dried-up fellow, whose age was not to be guessed, having a skin as

yellow as parchment, drawn in tight to the bones like that of a mummy,

his eyes deep sunken like wells, and his head totally devoid of hair,

although about his lean throat there was a copious fringe of iron-gray

beard, untrimmed and scraggy. Down the entire side of one cheek ran a

livid scar, while his nose was turned awry.

He sat staring at the newcomer, unwinking, his facial expression devoid

of interest, but his fingers opening and closing in apparent

nervousness. Twice his lips opened, but nothing except a peculiar

gurgling sound issued from the throat, and Brant, who by this time had

attained his feet and his self-possession, ventured to address him.

"Nice quiet spot for a camp," he remarked, pleasantly, "but a bad place

for a tumble."

The sunken eyes expressed nothing, but the throat gurgled again

painfully, and finally the parted lips dropped a detached word or two.

"Blame--pretty girl--that."

The lieutenant wondered how much of their conversation this old mummy

had overheard, but he hesitated to question him. One inquiry, however,

sprang to his surprised lips. "Do you know her?"

"Damn sight--better--than any one around here--know her--real name."

Brant stared incredulously. "Do you mean to insinuate that that young

woman is living in this community under an assumed one? Why, she is

scarcely more than a child! What do you mean, man?"