chilled by
approaching shadows. Fearful of, she knew not what, she hesitated.
Every moment of Lance's stay was imperiled by a single word that might
spring from his suppressed white lips; beyond and above the suspicions
his sudden withdrawal might awaken in her father's breast, she was
dimly conscious of some mysterious terror without that awaited him. She
listened to the furious onslaught of the wind upon the sycamores beside
their cabin, and thought she heard it there; she listened to the sharp
fusillade of rain upon roof and pane, and the turbulent roar and rush
of leaping mountain torrents at their very feet, and fancied it was
there. She suddenly sprang to the window, and, pressing her eyes to the
pane, saw through the misty turmoil of tossing boughs and swaying
branches the scintillating intermittent flames of torches moving on the
trail above, and _knew_ it was there!

In an instant she was collected and calm. "Dad," she said, in her
ordinary indifferent tone, "there's torches movin; up toward the
diamond pit. Likely it's tramps. I'll take the squaw and see." And
before the old man could stagger to his feet she had dragged Lance with
her into the road.

CHAPTER VI.

The wind charged down upon them, slamming the door at their backs,
extinguishing the broad shaft of light that had momentarily shot out
into the darkness, and swept them a dozen yards away. Gaining the lee
of a madrono tree, Lance opened his blanketed arms, enfolded the girl,
and felt her for one brief moment tremble and nestle in his bosom like
some frightened animal. "Well," he said, gayly, "what next?" Flip
recovered herself. "You're safe now anywhere outside the house. But did
you expect them to-night?" Lance shrugged his shoulders. "Why not?"
"Hush!" returned the girl; "they're coming this way."

The four flickering, scattered lights presently dropped into line. The
trail had been found; they were coming nearer. Flip breathed quickly;
the spiced aroma of her presence filled the blanket as he drew her
tightly beside him. He had forgotten the storm that raged around them,
the mysterious foe that was approaching, until Flip caught his sleeve
with a slight laugh. "Why, it's Kennedy and Bijah!"

"Who's Kennedy and Bijah?" asked Lance, curtly.

"Kennedy's the Postmaster and Bijah's the Butcher."

"What do they want?" continued Lance.

"Me," said Flip, coyly.

"You?"

"Yes; let's run away."

Half leading, half dragging her friend, Flip