."

The man left the office. He had not been gone long before there was a
timid knock at the office door.

"Come in," Firmstone called.

The door was opened hesitatingly and two men entered. They stood with
lowered eyes, shifting their caps from hand to hand, and awkwardly
balancing from foot to foot.

"Well?" Firmstone spoke sharply.

"Me and my partner want our jobs back."

"You'll have to see Roner. He's foreman now."

"Where is he?"

"In the mine."

"Can we take our bunks till morning, sir?"

"Yes."

The men left the office. Outside, their manner changed. Nudging elbows
grated each other's ribs. The darkness hid their winks.

Firmstone had made a sad mistake. He was not omniscient. The men knew
what he did not. They had been down to the Blue Goose and had returned
with a mission.

CHAPTER XXV

_A Divided House_

In her little alcove at the Blue Goose Elise was gaining information
every day of the progress of affairs, but in spite of impatience, in
spite of doubt, she had seen nothing, heard nothing that seemed to
demand immediate action on her part. She had made up her mind that a
crisis was approaching. She had also determined with whom she would cast
in her lot.

It was late when Hartwell's team pulled up at the Blue Goose. A crowd of
excited men surrounded it, but the driver and his companions made no
reply to loud questions as they sprang from the wagon and entered the
door. Morrison was the first to halt them. The driver broke out with a
string of oaths.

"It's so. Jack Haskins's gang is coming. Hartwell is taken care of all
right. If his crowd try to make it through the canon, there won't a
hundred show up, to-morrow." He ended with a coarse laugh.

Morrison listened till the driver had finished. Then he turned toward
Pierre. Pierre was standing just in front of the alcove, hiding Elise
from Morrison. Morrison advanced, shaking his fist.

"Now you've got it, you trimmer. What are you going to do? I told you
they were coming, and I've fixed for it."

Pierre stood with his hands in his pockets. There was the old oily smile
on his face, but his eyes were dangerous. Morrison did not observe them.

"Why don't you speak? You're called." Morrison glanced over his shoulder
at the silent crowd. "He's got a frog in his throat! The last one he
swallowed didn't go down."

Morrison was very near death. He noticed the crowd part hurriedly and
turned in time to look into the muzzle of P