go."

His words brought Ray to himself in some degree at least. The ridiculous
fear of the moment before speedily passed away. Why, the man was
exhausted--helpless in their hands--and the letter was in his pocket. It
meant _triumph_--nothing else. All Ray's aims had been attained. With
Ben's death the claim, a fourth of which had been his motive when he had
slain Ezram, would pass entirely to him,--except for such share as he
would have to give Chan. His star of fortune was in the sky. It was his
moment of glory,--long-awaited but enrapturing him at last.

Neilson lay seriously wounded, perhaps dead by now. Whatever his
injuries, he would not go back with them to share in the gold of the
claim. The girl, also, was his prey,--to do with what he liked.

"I see you've come," he answered. "You might as well; we'd have found
you to-morrow." His voice was no longer flat, but rather exultant,
boasting. "You thought you could get away--but we've shown you."

Ben nodded. "You are--" he strained for the name he had heard Beatrice
speak so often--"Ray Brent?" His eyes fell to the form of Neilson,
wounded beyond the fire. "I see you've been at your old job--killing. It
was you who killed Ezra Melville."

Ray smiled, ever so faintly: this was what he loved. "You're talking to
the right man. Anything you'd like to do about it?"

Ben's face hardened. "There is nothing I can do, now. You came too late.
But I would have had something to do if I had my rifle. I'm glad it was
you, not Beatrice's father. I ask you this--will you accept my
proposition. To take Ezram's letter, destroy it and me too--and let the
girl go in safety?"

Beatrice stretched her bound arms and touched his hairy wrist. "No,
Ben," she told him quietly. "There's no use of trying to make such a
bargain as that. Men that murder--and assault women,--won't keep their
word."

"They were about to attack you, were they?" His voice dropped a tone;
otherwise it seemed the same.

"Yes--just as you came."

He turned once more to Ray, eyeing him with such a look of contempt and
scorn that it smarted like a whiplash in spite of the protecting mantel
of his new-found triumph. "Oh, you depraved dogs!" he told them quietly
and distinctly. "You yellow, mongrel cowards!"

Ray straightened, stung by the words. "And I'll make you wish you was
dead before you ever said that," he threatened. "I'll tell you what you
wanted to know a minute ago--and I tell you no. I won't make an