se.

From a growth of shrub a woman in an Indian blanket peered toward the
grade. She saw the Indian standing there furiously snapping his empty
rifle after the fleeing bohunks. And with a smile she faded away.

Westward, along the grade, from the shadows Helen Mahon stepped, rifle
in hand. In a puzzled way she looked first toward the spot where the
squaw had fired from. Then she ran for the trestle.

When she reached it Torrance's body lay on the grade. Mahon, at the
sound of her feet, swung about and held out his arms.

"Darling," he murmured, "you saved us. You haven't lost your aim."

But she shook her head. "I fired to frighten. Some one else--"

They carried the limp body within the shack and laid it tenderly on the
couch. There was still life, and they worked with prayers on their
lips. . . .

From outside broke two sharp whistles. Mahon, with a puzzled frown,
looked from the front door. An awkward little broncho was trotting
past the corner of the house toward the stable.

Williams came to him. "I'm afraid it's no use, sir," he whispered.
"Nothing could stand up under that."

Mahon appealed to his wife. "Help us, Helen, it's got past us."

The sudden thunder of hoofs along the river side of the shack drew the
two Policemen to the door. Three horses, the broncho in the lead, were
climbing the grade. The broncho started out on the trestle, head bent,
measuring each step, moving from sleeper to sleeper. And at its heels,
obedient as sheep, were Torrance's two horses.

Six hundred yards of open trestle before the fill-in at the other side!
Mahon held his breath. . . .

"Mother o' Mike!" The horses had trotted out to safety, and Murphy was
capering gleefully about.

Mahon rushed to the corner of the shack and looked about. The Indian
was nowhere in sight.

Helen, with wet cheeks, was bathing the white face of the contractor.
Tressa, searching Helen's eyes for hope, saw it vanish in those tears.
With a crooning cry she sank beside the couch and lifted her father's
head in her arms.

"Daddy! Daddy, speak to me!"

But the face was the face of the dead.

Stooping, she gently brushed her father's lips with her own, as her
mother had done in the days of long ago.

"'Jim!'" she whispered. "'Jim!'"

The eyelids quivered and parted, and the eyes beneath looked vaguely
through.

"Mary!" he murmured. Then a sigh. "It hurts--so." One limp hand
trembled to his bruised head. "All r