The Border Legion

The vigilante leader shook the noose in his face and pointed to the

swaying forms of the dead bandits.

Frenchy frothed at the mouth as he shrieked out words in his native

tongue, but any miner there could have translated their meaning.

The crowd heaved forward, as if with one step, then stood in a

strained silence.

"Talk English!" ordered the vigilante.

"I'll tell! I'll tell!"

Joan became aware of a singular tremor in Kells's arm, which she

still clasped. Suddenly it jerked. She caught a gleam of blue. Then

the bellow of a gun almost split her ears. Powder burned her cheek.

She saw Frenchy double up and collapse on the platform.

For an instant there was a silence in which every man seemed

petrified. Then burst forth a hoarse uproar and the stamp of many

boots. All in another instant pandemonium broke out. The huge crowd

split in every direction. Joan felt Cleve's strong arm around her--

felt herself borne on a resistless tide of yelling, stamping,

wrestling men. She had a glimpse of Kells's dark face drawing away

from her; another of Gulden's giant form in Herculean action,

tossing men aside like ninepins; another of weapons aloft. Savage,

wild-eyed men fought to get into the circle whence that shot had

come. They broke into it, but did not know then whom to attack or

what to do. And the rushing of the frenzied miners all around soon

disintegrated Kells's band and bore its several groups in every

direction. There was not another shot fired.

Joan was dragged and crushed in the melee. Not for rods did her feet

touch the ground. But in the clouds of dust and confusion of

struggling forms she knew Jim still held her, and she clasped him

with all her strength. Presently her feet touched the earth; she was

not jostled and pressed; then she felt free to walk; and with Jim

urging her they climbed a rock-strewn slope till a cabin impeded

further progress. But they had escaped the stream.

Below was a strange sight. A scaffold shrouded in dust-clouds; a

band of bewildered vigilantes with weapons drawn, waiting for they

knew not what; three swinging, ghastly forms and a dead man on the

platform; and all below, a horde of men trying to escape from one

another. That shot of Kells's had precipitated a rush. No miner knew

who the vigilantes were nor the members of the Border Legion. Every

man there expected a bloody battle--distrusted the man next to him--

and had given way to panic. The vigilantes had tried to crowd

together for defense and all the others had tried to escape. It was

a wild scene, born of wild justice and blood at fever-heat, the

climax of a disordered time where gold and violence reigned supreme.

It could only happen once, but it was terrible while it lasted. It

showed the craven in men; it proved the baneful influence of gold;

it brought, in its fruition, the destiny of Alder Creek Camp. For it

must have been that the really brave and honest men in vast majority

retraced their steps while the vicious kept running. So it seemed to

Joan.