DYNAMITE
Early in the evening Cherry Malotte opened her door to find the Bronco
Kid on her step. He entered and threw off his rubber coat. Knowing him
well, she waited for his disclosure of his errand. His sallow skin was
without trace of color, his eyes were strangely tired, deep lines had
gathered about his lips, while his hands kept up constant little nervous
explorations as though for days and nights he had not slept and now
hovered on the verge of some hysteria. He gave her the impression of a
smouldering mine with the fire eating close up to the powder. She judged
that his body had been racked by every passion till now it hung jaded
and weary, yielding only to the spur of his restless, revengeful spirit.
After a few objectless remarks, he began, abruptly:
“Do you love Roy Glenister?” His voice, like his manner, was jealously
eager, and he watched her carefully as she replied, without quibble or
deceit:
“Yes, Kid; and I always shall. He is the only true man I have ever
known, and I’m not ashamed of my feelings.”
For a long time he studied her, and then broke into rapid speech,
allowing her no time for interruption.
“I’ve held back and held back because I’m no talker. I can’t be, in my
business; but this is my last chance, and I want to put myself right
with you. I’ve loved you ever since the Dawson days, not in the way
you’d expect from a man of my sort, perhaps, but with the kind of love
that a woman wants. I never showed my hand, for what was the use? That
man outheld me. I’d have quit faro years back only I wouldn’t leave this
country as long as you were a part of it, and up here I’m only a
gambler, fit for nothing else. I’d made up my mind to let you have him
till something happened a couple of months ago, but now it can’t go
through. I’ll have to down him. It isn’t concerning you--I’m not a
welcher. No, it’s a thing I can’t talk about, a thing that’s made me
into a wolf, made me skulk and walk the alleys like a dago. It’s put
murder into my heart. I’ve tried to assassinate him. I tried it here
last night--but--I was a gentleman once--till the cards came. He knows
the answer now, though, and he’s ready for me--so one of us will go out
like a candle when we meet. I felt that I had to tell you before I cut
him down or before he got me.”
“You’re talking like a madman, Kid,” she replied, “and you mustn’t turn
against him now. He has troubles enough. I never knew you cared for me.
What a tangle it is, to be sure. You love me, I love him, he loves that
girl, and she loves a crook. Isn’t that tragedy enough without your
adding to it? You come at a bad time, too, for I’m half insane. There’s
something dreadful in the air to-night--”
“I’ll have to kill him,” the man muttered, doggedly, and, plead or
reason as she would, she could get nothing from him except those words,
till at last she turned upon him fiercely.
“You say you love me. Very well--let’s see if you do. I know the kind of
a man you are and I know what this feud will mean to him, coming just at
this time. Put it aside and I’ll marry you.”
The gambler rose slowly to his feet. “You do love him, don’t you?” She
bowed her face, and he winced, but continued: “I wouldn’t make you my
wife that way. I didn’t mean it that way.”
At this she laughed bitterly. “Oh, I see. Of course not. How foolish of
me to expect it of a man like you. I understand what you mean now, and
the bargain will stand just the same, if that is what you came for. I
wanted to leave this life and be good, to go away and start over and
play the game square, but I see it’s no use. I’ll pay. I know how
relentless you are, and the price is low enough. You can have me--and
that--marriage talk--I’ll not speak of again. I’ll stay what I am for
his sake.”
“Stop!” cried the Kid. “You’re wrong. I’m not that kind of a sport.” His
voice broke suddenly, its vehemence shaking his slim body. “Oh, Cherry,
I love you the way a man ought to love a woman. It’s one of the two good
things left in me, and I want to take you away from here where we can
both hide from the past, where we can start new, as you say.”
“You would marry me?” she asked.
“In an hour, and give my heart’s blood for the privilege; but I can’t
stop this thing, not even if your own dear life hung upon it. I _must_
kill that man.”
She approached him and laid her arms about his neck, every line of her
body pleading, but he refused steadfastly, while the sweat stood out
upon his brow.
She begged: “They’re all against him, Kid.] He’s fighting a hopeless
fight. He laid all he had at that girl’s feet, and I’ll do the same for
you.”
The man growled savagely. “He got his reward. He took all she had--”
“Don’t be a fool. I guess I know. You’re a faro-dealer, but you haven’t
any right to talk like that about a good woman, even to a bad one like
me.”
Into his dark eyes slowly crept a hungry look, and she felt him begin to
tremble the least bit. He undertook to speak, paused, wet his lips, then
carefully chose these words:
“Do you mean--that he did not--that she is--a good girl?”
“Absolutely.”
He sat down weakly and passed a shaking hand over his face, which had
begun to twitch and jerk again as it had on that night when his
vengeance was thwarted.
“I may as well tell you that I know she’s more than that. She’s honest
and high-principled. I don’t know why I’m saying this, but it was on my
mind and I was half distracted when you came. She’s in danger to-night,
though--at this minute. I don’t dare to think of what may have happened,
for she’s risked everything to make reparation to Roy and his friends.”
“What?”
“She’s gone to the Sign of the Sled alone with Struve.”
“Struve!” shouted the gambler, leaping to his feet. “Alone with Struve
on a night like this?” He shook her fiercely, crying: “What for? Tell me
quick!”
She recounted the reasons for Helen’s adventure, while the man’s face
became terrible.
“Oh, Kid, I am to blame for letting her go. Why did I do it? I’m
afraid--afraid.”
“The Sign of the Sled belongs to Struve, and the fellow who runs it is a
rogue.” The Bronco looked at the clock, his eyes bloodshot and dull like
those of a goaded, fly-maddened bull. “It’s eight o’clock now--ten
miles--two hours. Too late!”
“What ails you?” she questioned, baffled by his strange demeanor. “You
called _me_ the one woman just now, and yet--”
He swung towards her heavily. “She’s my sister.”
“Your--sister? Oh, I--I’m glad. I’m glad--but don’t stand there like a
wooden man, for you’ve work to do. Wake up. Can’t you hear? She’s in
peril!” Her words whipped him out of his stupor so that he drew himself
somewhat under control. “Get into your coat. Hurry! Hurry! My pony will
take you there.” She snatched his garment from the chair and held it for
him while the life ran back into his veins. Together they dashed out
into the storm as she and Roy had done, and as he flung the saddle on
the buckskin, she said:
“I understand it all now. You heard the talk about her and Glenister;
but it’s wrong. I lied and schemed and intrigued against her, but it’s
over now. I guess there’s a little streak of good in me somewhere, after
all.”
He spoke to her from the saddle. “It’s more than a streak, Cherry, and
you’re my kind of people.” She smiled wanly back at him under the
lantern-light.
“That’s left-handed, Kid. I don’t want to be your kind. I want to be his
kind--or your sister’s kind.”
* * * * *
Upon leaving the rendezvous, Glenister and his two friends slunk through
the night, avoiding the life and lights of the town, while the wind
surged out of the voids to seaward, driving its wet burden through their
flapping slickers, pelting their faces as though enraged at its failure
to wash away the purposes written there. Their course brought them to a
cabin at the western outskirts of the city, where they paused long
enough to adjust something beneath the brims of their hats.
Past them ran the iron rails of the narrow-gauged road which led out
across the quaking tundra to the mountains and the mines. Upon this
slender trail of steel there rolled one small, ungainly teapot of an
engine which daily creaked and clanked back and forth at a snail’s pace,
screaming and wailing its complaint of the two high-loaded flat-cars
behind. The ties beneath it were spiked to planks laid lengthwise over
the semi-liquid road-bed, in places sagging beneath the surface till the
humpbacked, short-waisted locomotive yawed and reeled and squealed like
a drunken fish-wife. At night it panted wearily into the board station
and there sighed and coughed and hissed away its fatigue as the coals
died and the breath relaxed in its lungs.
Early to bed and early to rise was perforce the motto of its grimy crew,
who lived near by. To-night they were just retiring when stayed by a
summons at their door. The engineer opened it to admit what appeared to
his astonished eyes to be a Krupp cannon propelled by a man in
yellow-oiled clothes and white cotton mask. This weapon assumed the
proportions of a great, one-eyed monster, which stared with baleful
fixity at his vitals, giving him a cold and empty feeling. Away back
beyond this Cyclops of the Sightless Orb were two other strangers
likewise equipped.
The fireman arose from his chair, dropping an empty shoe with a thump,
but, being of the West, without cavil or waste of wind, he stretched his
hands above his head, balancing on one foot to keep his unshod member
from the damp floor. He had unbuckled his belt, and now, loosened by the
movement, his overalls seemed bent on sinking floorward in an ecstasy of
abashment at the intrusion, whereupon with convulsive grip he hugged
them to their duty, one hand and foot still elevated as though in the
grand hailing-sign of some secret order. The other man was new to the
ways of the North, so backed to the limit of his quarters, laid both
hands protectingly upon his middle, and doubled up, remarking, fervidly:
“Don’t point that damn thing at my stomach.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed the fireman, with unnatural loudness. “Have your joke,
boys.”
“This ain’t no joke,” said the foremost figure, its breath bellying out
the mask at its mouth.
“Sure it is,” insisted the shoeless one. “Must be--we ain’t got anything
worth stealing.”
“Get into your clothes and come along. We won’t hurt you.” The two
obeyed and were taken to the sleeping engine and there instructed to
produce a full head of steam in thirty minutes or suffer a premature
taking off and a prompt elision from the realms of applied mechanics. As
stimulus to their efforts two of the men stood over them till the engine
began to sob and sigh reluctantly. Through the gloom that curtained the
cab they saw other dim forms materializing and climbing silently on to
the cars behind; then, as the steam-gauge touched the mark, the word was
given and the train rumbled out from its shelter, its shrill plaint at
curb and crossing whipped away and drowned in the storm.
Slapjack remained in the cab, gun in lap, while Dextry climbed back to
Glenister. He found the young man in good spirits, despite the
discomfort of his exposed position, and striving to light his pipe
behind the shelter of his coat.
“Is the dynamite aboard?” the old man questioned.
“Sure. Enough to ballast a battle-ship.”
As the train crept out of the camp and across the river bridge, its only
light or glimmer the sparks that were snatched and harried by the blast,
the partners seated themselves on the powder cases and conversed
guardedly, while about them sounded the low murmur of the men who risked
their all upon this cry to duty, who staked their lives and futures upon
this hazard of the hills, because they thought it right.
“We’ve made a good fight, whether we win or lose to-night,” said Dextry.
Roy replied, “_My_ fight is made and won.”
“What does that mean?”
“My hardest battle had nothing to do with the Midas or the mines of
Anvil. I fought and conquered myself.”
“Awful wet night for philosophy,” the first remarked. “It’s apt to sour
on you like milk in a thunder-storm. S’pose you put overalls an’ gum
boots on some of them Boston ideas an’ lead ’em out where I can look ’em
over an’ find out what they’re up to.”
“I mean that I was a savage till I met Helen Chester and she made a man
of me. It took sixty days, but I think she did a good job. I love the
wild things just as much as ever, but I’ve learned that there are duties
a fellow owes to himself, and to other people, if he’ll only stop and
think them out. I’ve found out, too, that the right thing is usually the
hardest to do. Oh, I’ve improved a lot.”
“Gee! but you’re popular with yourself. I don’t see as it helps your
looks any. You’re as homely as ever--an’ what good does it do you after
all? She’ll marry that big guy.”
“I know. That’s what rankles, for he’s no more worthy of her than I am.
She’ll do what’s right, however, you may depend upon that, and perhaps
she’ll change him the way she did me. Why, she worked a miracle in my
attitude towards life--my manner--”
“Oh, your manners are good enough as they lay,” interrupted the other.
“You never did eat with your knife.”
“I don’t believe in hara-kiri,” Glenister laughed.
“No, when it comes to intimacies with decorum, you’re right on the job
along with any of them Easterners. I watched you close at them ’Frisco
hotels last winter, and, say--you know as much as a horse. Why, you was
wise to them tablewares and pickle-forks equal to a head-waiter, and it
give me confidence just to be with you. I remember putting milk and
sugar in my consommé the first time. It was pale and in a cup and looked
like tea--but not you. No, sir! You savvied plenty and squeezed a lemon
into yours--to clean your fingers, I reckon.”
Roy slapped his partner’s wet back, for he was buoyant and elated. The
sense of nearing danger pulsed through him like wine.
“That wasn’t just what I meant, but it goes. Say, if we win back our
mine, we’ll hit for New York next--eh?”
“No, I don’t aim to mingle with no higher civilization than I got in
’Frisco. I use that word ‘higher’ like it was applied to meat. Not that
I wouldn’t seem apropos. I’m stylish enough for Fifth Avenue or
anywheres, but I like the West. Speakin’ of modes an’ styles, when I get
all lit up in that gray woosted suit of mine, I guess I make the jaded
sight-seers set up an’ take notice--eh? Somethin’ doin’ every minute in
the cranin’ of necks--what? Nothin’ gaudy, but the acme of neatness an’
form, as the feller said who sold it to me.”
Their common peril brought the friends together again, into that close
bond which had been theirs without interruption until this recent change
in the younger had led him to choose paths at variance with the old
man’s ideas; and now they spoke, heart to heart, in the half-serious,
half-jesting ways of old, while beneath each whimsical irony was that
mutual love and understanding which had consecrated their partnership.
Arriving at the end of the road, the Vigilantes debouched and went into
the darkness of the cañon behind their leader, to whom the trails were
familiar. He bade them pause finally, and gave his last instructions.
“They are on the alert, so you want to be careful. Divide into two
parties and close in from both sides, creeping as near to the pickets as
possible without discovery. Remember to wait for the last blast. When it
comes, cut loose and charge like Sioux. Don’t shoot to kill at first,
for they’re only soldiers and under orders, but if they stand--well,
every man must do his work.”
Dextry appealed to the dim figures forming the circle.
“I leave it to you, gents, if it ain’t better for me to go inside than
for the boy. I’ve had more experience with giant powder, an’ I’m so
blamed used up an’ near gone it wouldn’t hurt if they did get me, while
he’s right in his prime--”
Glenister stopped him. “I won’t yield the privilege. Come now--to your
places, men.”
They melted away to each side while the old prospector paused to wring
his partner’s hand.
“I’d ruther it was me, lad, but if they get you--God help ’em!” He
stumbled after the departing shadows, leaving Roy alone. With his naked
fingers, Glenister ripped open the powder cases and secreted the
contents upon his person. Each cartridge held dynamite enough to
devastate a village, and he loaded them inside his pockets, inside his
shirt, and everywhere that he had room, till he was burdened and cased
in an armor one-hundredth part of which could have blown him from the
face of the earth so utterly as to leave no trace except, perhaps, a pit
ripped out of the mountain-side. He looked to his fuses and saw that
they were wrapped in oiled paper, then placed them in his hat. Having
finished, he set out, walking with difficulty under the weight he
carried.
That his choice of location had been well made was evidenced by the fact
that the ground beneath his feet sloped away to a basin out of which
bubbled a spring. It furnished the drinking supply of the Midas, and he
knew every inch of the crevice it had worn down the mountain, so felt
his way cautiously along. At the bottom of the hill where it ran out
upon the level it had worn a considerable ditch through the soil, and
into this he crawled on hands and knees. His bulging clothes
handicapped him so that his gait was slow and awkward, while the rain
had swelled the streamlet till it trickled over his calves and up to his
wrists, chilling him so that his muscles cramped and his very bones
cried out with it. The sharp schist cut into his palms till they were
shredded and bleeding, while his knees found every jagged bit of
bed-rock over which he dragged himself. He could not see an arm’s-length
ahead without rising, and, having removed his slicker for greater
freedom of movement, the rain beat upon his back till he was soaked and
sodden and felt streamlets cleaving downward between his ribs. Now and
again he squatted upon his haunches, straining his eyes to either side.
The banks were barely high enough to shield him. At last he came to a
bridge of planks spanning the ditch and was about to rear himself for
another look when he suddenly flattened into the stream bed, half
damming the waters with his body. It was for this he had so carefully
wrapped his fuses. A man passed over him so close above that he might
have touched him. The sentry paused a few paces beyond and accosted
another, then retraced his steps over the bridge. Evidently this was the
picket-line, so Roy wormed his way forward till he saw the blacker
blackness of the mine buildings, then drew himself dripping out from the
bank. He had run the gauntlet safely.
Since evicting the owners, the receiver had erected substantial houses
in place of the tents he had found on the mine. They were of frame and
corrugated-iron, sheathed within and suited to withstand a moderate
exposure. The partners had witnessed the operation from a distance, but
knew nothing about the buildings from close examination.
A thrill of affection for this place warmed the young man. He loved this
old mine. It had realized the dream of his boyhood, and had answered the
hope he had clung to during his long fight against the Northland. It had
come to him when he was disheartened, bringing cheer and happiness, and
had yielded itself like a bride. Now it seemed a crime to ravage it.
He crept towards the nearest wall and listened. Within was the sound of
voices, though the windows were dark, showing that the inhabitants were
on the alert. Beneath the foundations he made mysterious preparations,
then sought out the office building and cook-house, doing likewise. He
found that back of the seeming repose of the Midas there was a strained
expectancy.
Although suspense had lengthened the time out of all calculation, he
judged he had been gone from his companions at least an hour and that
they must be in place by now. If they were not--if anything failed at
this eleventh hour--well, those were the fortunes of war. In every
enterprise, however carefully planned, there comes a time when chance
must take its turn.
He made his way inside the blacksmith-shop and fumbled for a match. Just
as he was about to strike it he heard the swish of oiled clothes
passing, and waited for some time. Then, igniting his punk and hiding it
under his coat, he opened the door to listen. The wind had died down now
and the rain sang musically upon the metal roofs.
He ran swiftly from house to house, and, when he had done, at the apices
of the triangle he had traced three glowing coals were sputtering.
The final bolt was launched at last. He stepped down into the ditch and
drew his .45, while to his tautened senses it seemed that the very hills
leaned forth in breathless pause, that the rain had ceased, and the
whole night hushed its thousand voices. He found his lower jaw set so
stiffly that the muscles ached. Levelling his weapon at the eaves of the
bunk-house, he pulled trigger rapidly--the bang, bang, bang, six times
repeated, sounding dull and dead beneath the blanket of mist that
overhung. A shout sounded behind him, and then the shriek of a
Winchester ball close over his head. He turned in time to see another
shot stream out of the darkness, where a sentry was firing at the flash
of his gun, then bent himself double and plunged down the ditch.
With the first impact overhead the men poured forth from their quarters
armed and bristling, to be greeted by a volley of gunshots, the thud of
bullets, and the dwindling whine of spent lead. They leaped from shelter
to find themselves girt with a fitful hoop of fire, for the “Stranglers”
had spread in the arc of a circle and now emptied their rifles towards
the centre. The defenders, however, maintained surprising order
considering the suddenness of their attack, and ran to join the
sentries, whose positions could be determined by the nearer flashes. The
voice of a man in authority shouted loud commands. No demonstration came
from the outer voids, nothing but the wicked streaks that stabbed the
darkness. Then suddenly, behind McNamara’s men, the night glared luridly
as though a great furnace-door had opened and then clanged shut, while
with it came a hoarse thudding roar that silenced the rifle play. They
saw the cook-house disrupt itself and disintegrate into a thousand
flying timbers and twisted sheets of tin which soared upward and
outward over their heads and into the night. As the rocking hills ceased
echoing, the sound of the Vigilantes’ rifles recurred like the cracking
of dry sticks, then everywhere about the defenders the earth was lashed
by falling débris while the iron roofs rang at the fusillade.
The blast had come at their very elbows, and they were too dazed and
shaken by it to grasp its significance. Then, before they could realize
what it boded, the depths lit up again till the raindrops were outlined
distinct and glistening like a gossamer veil of silver, while the office
building to their left was ripped and rended and the adjoining walls
leaped out into sudden relief, their shattered windows looking like
ghostly, sightless eyes. The curtain of darkness closed heavier than
velvet, and the men cowered in their tracks, shielding themselves behind
the nearest objects or behind one another’s bodies, waiting for the sky
to vomit over them its rain of missiles. Their backs were to the
Vigilantes now, their faces to the centre. Many had dropped their
rifles. The thunder of hoofs and the scream of terrified horses came
from the stables. The cry of a maddened beast is weird and calculated to
curdle the blood at best, but with it arose a human voice, shrieking
from pain and fear of death. A wrenched and doubled mass of zinc had
hurtled out of the heavens and struck some one down. The choking
hoarseness of the man’s appeal told the story, and those about him broke
into flight to escape what might follow, to escape this danger they
could not see but which swooped out of the blackness above and against
which there was no defence. They fled only to witness another and
greater light behind them by which they saw themselves running,
falling, grovelling. This time they were hurled from their balance by a
concussion which dwarfed the two preceding ones. Some few stood still,
staring at the rolling smoke-bank as it was revealed by the explosion,
their eyes gleaming white, while others buried their faces in their
hollowed arms as if to shut out the hellish glare, or to shield
themselves from a blow.
Out in the heart of the chaos rang a voice loud and clear:
“Beware the next blast!”
At the same instant the girdle of sharp-shooters rose up smiting the air
with their cries and charged in like madmen through the rain of
detritus. They fired as they came, but it was unnecessary, for there was
no longer a fight. It was a rout. The defenders, feeling they had
escaped destruction only by a happy chance in leaving the bunk-house the
instant they did, were not minded to tarry here where the heavens fell
upon their heads. To augment their consternation, the horses had broken
from their stalls and were plunging through the confusion. Fear swept
over the men--blind, unreasoning, contagious--and they rushed out into
the night, colliding with their enemies, overrunning them in the panic
to quit this spot. Some dashed off the bluff and fell among the pits and
sluices. Others ran up the mountain-side, and cowered in the brush like
quail.
As the “Stranglers” assembled their prisoners near the ruins, they heard
wounded men moaning in the darkness, so lit torches and searched out the
stricken ones. Glenister came running through the smoke pall, revolver
in hand, crying:
“Has any one seen McNamara?” No one had, and when they were later
assembled to take stock of their injuries he was greeted by Dextry’s
gleeful announcement:
“That’s the deuce of a fight. We ’ain’t got so much as a cold sore among
us.”
“We have captured fourteen,” another announced, “and there may be more
out yonder in the brush.”
Glenister noted with growing surprise that not one of the prisoners
lined up beneath the glaring torches wore the army blue. They were
miners all, or thugs and ruffians gathered from the camp. Where, he
wondered, were the soldiers.
“Didn’t you have troops from the barracks to help you?” he asked.
“Not a troop. We haven’t seen a soldier since we went to work.”
At this the young leader became alarmed. Had this whole attack
miscarried? Had this been no clash with the United States forces, after
all? If so, the news would never reach Washington, and instead of
accomplishing his end, he and his friends had thrust themselves into the
realms of outlawry, where the soldiers could be employed against them
with impunity, where prices would rest upon their heads. Innocent blood
had been shed, court property destroyed. McNamara had them where he
wanted them at last. They were at bay.
The unwounded prisoners were taken to the boundaries of the Midas and
released with such warnings as the imagination of Dextry could conjure
up; then Glenister assembled his men, speaking to them plainly.
“Boys, this is no victory. In fact, we’re worse off than we were
before, and our biggest fight is coming. There’s a chance to get away
now before daylight and before we’re recognized, but if we’re seen here
at sunup we’ll have to stay and fight. Soldiers will be sent against us,
but if we hold out, and the struggle is fierce enough, it may reach to
Washington. This will be a different kind of fighting now, though. It
will be warfare pure and simple. How many of you will stick?”
“All of us,” said they, in unison, and, accordingly, preparations for a
siege were begun. Barricades were built, ruins removed, buildings
transformed into block-houses, and all through the turbulent night the
tired men labored till ready to drop, led always by the young giant, who
seemed without fatigue.
It was perhaps four hours after midnight when a man sought him out.
“Somebody’s callin’ you on the Assay Office telephone--says it’s life or
death.”
Glenister hurried to the building, which had escaped the shock of the
explosions, and, taking down the receiver, was answered by Cherry
Malotte.
“Thank God, you’re safe,” she began. “The men have just come in and the
whole town is awake over the riot. They say you’ve killed ten people in
the fight--is it true?”
He explained to her briefly that all was well, but she broke in:
“Wait, wait! McNamara has called for troops and you’ll all be shot. Oh,
what a terrible night it has been! I haven’t been to bed. I’m going mad.
Now, listen, carefully--yesterday Helen went with Struve to the Sign of
the Sled and she hasn’t come back.”
The man at the end of the wire cried out at this, then choked back his
words to hear what followed. His free hand began making strange, futile
motions as though he traced patterns in the air.
“I can’t raise the road-house on the wire and--something dreadful has
happened, I know.”
“What made her go?” he shouted.
“To save you,” came Cherry’s faint reply. “If you love her, ride fast to
the Sign of the Sled or you’ll be too late. The Bronco Kid has gone
there--”
At that name Roy crashed the instrument to its hook and burst out of the
shanty, calling loudly to his men.
“What’s up?”
“Where are you going?”
“To the Sign of the Sled,” he panted.
“We’ve stood by you, Glenister, and you can’t quit us like this,” said
one, angrily. “The trail to town is good, and we’ll take it if you do.”
Roy saw they feared he was deserting, feared that he had heard some
alarming rumor of which they did not know.
“We’ll let the mine go, boys, for I can’t ask you to do what I refuse to
do myself, and yet it’s not fear that’s sending me. There’s a woman in
danger and I _must_ go. She courted ruin to save us all, risked her
honor to try and right a wrong--and--I’m afraid of what has happened
while we were fighting here. I don’t ask you to stay till I come
back--it wouldn’t be square, and you’d better go while you have a
chance. As for me--I gave up the old claim once--I can do it again.” He
swung himself to the horse’s back, settled into the saddle, and rode out
through the lane of belted men.