e?"

He pointed up the stream, and Brennan shaded his eyes to look, although
careful to keep well under cover, confident that any movement would be
observed from the shore. He gazed for some time before he seemed
entirely satisfied.

"A bunch of the boys crossin' the old ford," he said quietly. "Goin'
to picket the other bank, I reckon. There's likely to be some more
comin' down the opposite way from the bridge. That's Lacy's idea--to
starve us out."

"They seem quiet enough."

"There won't be any more fightin' unless we try to get away, I reckon.
They know we are armed and can shoot. You better keep down, though,
Jim, for they're sure a watchin' us all right, an' all Lacy cares about
is to put you out o' the way. He'd just as soon do it with a bullet as
a rope. Go on with your story."

Westcott told it simply, but in full detail, beginning with the
discovery of ore in his mine, and including his telegram to Fred
Cavendish; the discovery of what was supposed to be the dead body of
the latter in the Waldron Apartments, New York; the investigations into
the mystery of his death by Willis and Miss Donovan, and the
despatching of Miss Donovan to Haskell to intercept Enright's party;
the arrival of the latter and the events, so far as he understood them,
leading up to the forcible abduction of the girl.

The marshal listened quietly to the narrative, the quick action of his
jaws alone evidencing his interest, although he occasionally interposed
a question. Except for Westcott's voice there was no sound, beyond the
lapping of water against the rock, and no figures of men became visible
along either bank. The party above had crossed the stream, and
disappeared up a ravine, and nothing remained to indicate that these
two were fugitives, hiding for their lives, and facing a desperate
expedient in an effort to escape their pursuers. As the speaker
finally concluded the silence was almost oppressive.

"How do yer suppose Bill Lacy got into the affair?" asked Brennan, at
last thoughtfully. "I don't put no sorter deviltry beyond him, yer
understand, but I don't quite see how he ever come to get mixed up in
this yere New York mess. Seems like he had enough hell brewing here at
home."

"I'm just as much in the dark as you are, as to that," admitted
Westcott doubtfully. "I am convinced, however, that Cavendish is still
alive, and that another body strangely resembling his was found in the
New York apartments. A