ity and of anger; but a couple of the strangers emptied their
six-shooters over the heads of the crowd, and they broke and scattered,
some of them rushing wildly back to their homes in Vermissa.

When a few of the bravest had rallied, and there was a return to the
mine, the murderous gang had vanished in the mists of morning, without
a single witness being able to swear to the identity of these men who
in front of a hundred spectators had wrought this double crime.

Scanlan and McMurdo made their way back; Scanlan somewhat subdued, for
it was the first murder job that he had seen with his own eyes, and it
appeared less funny than he had been led to believe. The horrible
screams of the dead manager's wife pursued them as they hurried to the
town. McMurdo was absorbed and silent; but he showed no sympathy for
the weakening of his companion.

"Sure, it is like a war," he repeated. "What is it but a war between us
and them, and we hit back where we best can."

There was high revel in the lodge room at the Union House that night,
not only over the killing of the manager and engineer of the Crow Hill
mine, which would bring this organization into line with the other
blackmailed and terror-stricken companies of the district, but also
over a distant triumph which had been wrought by the hands of the lodge
itself.

It would appear that when the County Delegate had sent over five good
men to strike a blow in Vermissa, he had demanded that in return three
Vermissa men should be secretly selected and sent across to kill
William Hales of Stake Royal, one of the best known and most popular
mine owners in the Gilmerton district, a man who was believed not to
have an enemy in the world; for he was in all ways a model employer. He
had insisted, however, upon efficiency in the work, and had, therefore,
paid off certain drunken and idle employees who were members of the
all-powerful society. Coffin notices hung outside his door had not
weakened his resolution, and so in a free, civilized country he found
himself condemned to death.

The execution had now been duly carried out. Ted Baldwin, who sprawled
now in the seat of honour beside the Bodymaster, had been chief of the
party. His flushed face and glazed, blood-shot eyes told of
sleeplessness and drink. He and his two comrades had spent the night
before among the mountains. They were unkempt and weather-stained. But
no heroes, returning from a forlorn hope, could have had a warmer