ession by a jumper who was so obviously in the wrong.

"Hello, there!" he hailed, reining in before the tunnel; and after a
minute the man rose up with his pistol poised over his shoulder. It was
Dave, Murray's gun-man, and at sight of his enemy Denver was swept with
a gust of passion. From the moment he had first met him, this
narrow-eyed, sneering bad-man had roused all the hate that was in him;
but now it had gone beyond instinct. He found him in adverse possession
of his property and with a gun raised ready to shoot.

"What are _you_ doing here?" demanded Denver insolently but
Chatwourth did not move. He stood like a statue, his gun balanced in the
air, a thin, evil smile on his lips, and Denver gave way to his fury.
"You get out of there!" he ordered. "Get off my property! Get off or
I'll put you off!"

Chatwourth twirled his gun in a contemptuous gesture; and then, like a
flash, he was shooting. He threw his shots low, between the legs of the
horse, which reared and whirled in a panic; and with the bang of the
heavy gun in his ears, Denver found himself headed down the trail. A
high derisive yell, a whoop of hectoring laughter, followed after him as
he galloped into the open; and he was fighting his horse in a cloud of
dust when Bunker Hill and the crowd came up.

CHAPTER XIX

THE MAN-KILLER

"Did he hit ye?" yelled Bunker when Denver had conquered his pitching
horse and set him back on his haunches. "Hell's bells, boy, I told you
to stay out of there!"

"Well, you lend me a gun!" shouted Denver in a fury, "and I'll go back
and shoot it out with that dastard! It's him or me--that's all!"

"Here's a gun, pardner," volunteered a long-bearded prospector handing
up a six-shooter with tremulous eagerness; but Bunker Hill struck the
long pistol away and took Denver's horse by the bit.

"Not by a jugful, old-timer," he said to the prospector. "Do you want to
get the kid killed? Come on back to the meeting and we'll frame up
something on these jumpers that'll make 'em hunt their holes. But this
boy here is my friend, understand?"

He held the prancing horse, which had been spattered with glancing lead,
until Denver swung down out of the saddle; and then, while the crowd
followed along at their heels, he led the way back to the store.

"What's going on here?" demanded Denver, looking about at the automobile
and the men who had popped up like magic, "has Murray made a strike?"

"Danged right," answered