tely turned and roared a command to
his followers. At once half a dozen natives sprang eagerly forward,
but before they could lay hands upon him Curly was on his feet,
trembling violently. He leaped aside from the natives, his face
ghastly pale.

"Keep them off!" he yelled. "Don't let the devils touch me!"

"I thought that would bring you somewhat to your senses," and a smile
of contempt hovered about the corners of Glen's mouth as she spoke.
"But I mean what I say, you can be assured of that. Tell me, now, what
is the meaning of all this? Why did you bring Mr. Reynolds here, and
what were you going to do to him?"

"He murdered his pardner," was the low reply.

Glen gave a violent start at this accusation, and looked keenly at
Curly. Her hands trembled, and it seemed to her as if her heart had
stopped beating.

"Who was his partner?" she at length found voice to ask.

"Frontier Samson, of course. He was a friend of ours, and we were
about to avenge his death, when you interfered."

"But how did you learn that Frontier Samson is dead?" Glen inquired.

"Because no one has seen him since he left camp with this guy," and he
motioned to Reynolds who was standing nearby. "Samson hasn't shown up
at Big Draw, an' his pardner doesn't care to explain what happened to
him."

For a few seconds there was a dead silence, save for the crackling of
the fire, and the restless movements of the horses. Then from out of
the darkness came a roar of laughter, and while all turned and stared
in astonishment, Frontier Samson himself bounded into their midst and
confronted Curly.

"Do I look like a dead man?" he demanded. "D'ye think I've been
murdered by me pardner?"

Curly's only reply was a fearful stare as if he had seen a ghost. He
tried to speak, but words would not come.

"Frightened, are ye?" and the prospector took a step closer to the
unhappy villain. "But ye'll be more frightened before I git through
with ye, let me tell ye that. What's the meanin' of sich actions? Out
with it."

"I t-thought y-you were dead," Curly stammered.

"An' so ye was takin' the matter of justice into yer own dirty hands,
eh?"

"Somebody had to do it."

"H'm," Samson grunted as he glanced around upon the miners. "Queer
justice, I call it. Why didn't ye let the Police look after the
affair, if ye thought me pardner had murdered me? No, ye can't answer
that," he continued, for Curly made no defence. "It's yer own bad
hea