on guard. However, the delay was not a long one,
horses being brought up from the near-by corral, and the entire party
mounting rode down the trail toward Haskell. The cabin was left dark
and deserted, the mine silent. Westcott made no effort to follow,
feeling assured that no important movement would be attempted that
night.

It was late the next morning before he rode into Haskell and, stabling
his horse, which bore all the marks of hard riding, proceeded toward
the Timmons House. He had utilised, as best he could, the hours since
that cavalcade had departed from La Rosita to put his own affairs in
order so that he might feel free to camp on the conspirators' trail and
risk all in an effort to rescue Cavendish. The night had been a hard
one, but Westcott was still totally unconscious of fatigue--his whole
thought centred on his purpose.

Alone he had explored the tunnels in Lacy's mine, creeping about in the
darkness, guided only by the flash of an electric torch, until he
thoroughly understood the nature of the work being accomplished. As
soon as dawn came he sought two reliable men in the valley below, and
posted them as guards over his own property; but, before he finally
rode away, the three brought forth the body of the murdered Mexican and
reverently buried it on a secluded spot of the bleak hillside.

Then, convinced that every precaution had been taken, Westcott turned
his horse's head toward Haskell. As he rode slowly up the street in
the bright sunlight his mind reverted to Stella Donovan. The stern
adventures of the night had temporarily driven the girl from his
thoughts, but now the memory returned, and her bright, womanly face
arose before him, full of allurement. He seemed to look once more into
the wonderful depths of her eyes and to feel the fascination of her
smile. Eager for the greeting, which he felt assured awaited him, he
strode through the open door into the office. The room was vacant, but
as he crossed the floor toward the desk the proprietor entered through
the opening leading into the barroom beyond. Timmons had quite
evidently been drinking more than usual--the effect being largely
disclosed by loquacity of speech.

"Hello, Jim!" he cried at sight of the other. "Thought you'd be back,
but, damn it, yer too late--she's--she's gone; almighty pretty girl,
too. I told the boys it was a blame shame fer her ter run off
thataway."

"Who has run off?" And Westcott's hand crush