nd o'
foller 'long behind."

"You fool!" shrilled Bethune, as he made a grab for the girl's reins,
and the next instant found himself looking straight into the muzzle of
Watts's rifle.

"Drap them lines," drawled the mountaineer, "thet hain't yo' hoss. An'
what's over an' above, yo' better put up yo' whittle, an' tu'n 'round
an' go back wher' yo' com' from."

"Lower that gun!" commanded Bethune. "It's cocked!"

"Yes, hit's cocked, Mr. Bethune, an' hit's sot mighty light on the
trigger. Ef I'd git a little scairt, er a little riled, er my foot 'ud
slip, yo'd have to be drug down to wher' the diggin's easy, an'
buried."

Bethune deliberately slipped the knife back into his shirt, and
laughed: "Oh, come, now, Watts, a joke's a joke. I played a joke on
Miss Sinclair to frighten her----"

"Yo' done hit, all right," interrupted Watts. "An' thet's the end
on't."

The rifle muzzle still covered Bethune's chest in the precise region
of his heart, and once more he changed his tactics: "Don't be a fool,
Watts," he said, in an undertone, "I'm rich--richer than you, or
anyone else knows. I've located Rod Sinclair's strike and filed it. If
you just slip quietly off about your business, and forget that you
ever saw anyone here this morning--and see to it that you never
remember it again, you'll never regret it. I'll make it right with
you--I'll file you next to discovery."

"Yo' mean," asked Watts, slowly, "thet you've stoled the mine offen
Sinclair's darter, an' filed hit yo'self, an' thet ef I go 'way an'
let yo' finish the job by murderin' the gal, yo'll give me some of the
mine--is thet what yo' tryin' to git at?"

"Put it anyway you want to, damn you! Words don't matter, but for
God's sake, get out! If she once gets through the gap----"

"Bethune," Watts drawled the name, even more than was his wont, and
the quarter-breed noticed that the usually roving eyes had set into a
hard stare behind which lurked a dangerous glitter, "yo're a ornery,
low-down cur-dog what hain't fitten to be run with by man, beast, or
devil. I'd ort to shoot yo' daid right wher' yo' at--an' mebbe I will.
But comin' to squint yo' over, that there damage looks mo' like a
quirt-lick than a limb. Thet ort to hurt like fire fer a couple a
days, an' when it lets up yo' face hain't a-goin' to be so purty as
what hit wus. Ef she'd jest of drug the quirt along a little when hit
landed she c'd of cut plumb into the bone--but hit's middlin' fair, as
hi