hand, sought to distinguish the outlines of the window
frame. Failing in this, he crept noiselessly across the floor,
unlatched the closed door, and emerged into the open air.

It was a dark night, with scarcely a star visible, the only gleam of
radiance coming from a light across the gulch, which he knew burned in
the shaft-house of the La Rosita.

Everything about was still, with the intense silence of mountain
solitude. Not a breath of air stirred the motionless cedars.
Cautiously he circled the black cabin, every nerve taut for struggle,
every sense alert. He found nothing to reward his search--whoever the
coward had been, he had disappeared among the rocks, vanishing
completely in the black night. The fellow had not even waited to learn
the effect of his shot. He had fired pointblank into the lighted room,
sighting at Westcott's head, and then ran, assured no doubt the
speeding bullet had gone straight to the mark. It was not until he
came back to the open door that the miner thought of his companion.
What had become of Jose? Could it be that the Mexican was hit? He
entered, shrinking from the task, yet resolute to learn the truth; felt
his way along the wall as far as the fireplace, and stirred the embers
into flame. They leaped up, casting a flickering glow over the
interior. A black, shapeless figure, scarcely discernible as a man,
lay huddled beneath the table. Westcott bent over it, feeling for the
heart and turning the face upward. There was no visible mark of the
bullet wound, but the body was limp, the face ghastly in the grotesque
dance of the flames. The assassin had not wasted his shot--Jose
Salvari would never see Mexico again.

CHAPTER XIV: LACY LEARNS THE TRUTH

Westcott straightened the body out, crossing the dead hands, and
covered the face with a blanket stripped from a bunk. The brief burst
of flame died down, leaving the room in semi-darkness. The miner was
conscious only of a feeling of dull rage, a desire for revenge. The
shot had been clearly intended for himself. The killing of Jose had
been a mere accident. In all probability the murderer had crept away
believing he had succeeded in his purpose. If he had lingered long
enough to see any one emerge from the hut, he would naturally imagine
the survivor to be the Mexican. Good! This very confidence would tend
to throw the fellow off his guard; he would have no fear of Jose.

Westcott's heart rose in his throat a