pied, they were startled by the sound of breaking twigs,
as if some one were slowly approaching; whispering voices were also
heard.

"It must be hereabouts," said a voice in a low tone; "he pointed out the
place."

"Ho!" cried McLeod, who, with Larry, had seized and cocked his rifle,
"is that you, Webster?"

"Halloo! McLeod, where are you?"

In another moment a party of miners broke through the underwood, talking
loudly, but they dropped their voices to a whisper on beholding the dead
body.

"Whist, boys," said Larry, holding up his hand. "We've jist got hold o'
the bullet. It's flattened the least thing, but the size is easy to
see. There's a wound over the heart, too, made with a knife; now that's
wot I want to get at the bottom of, but I don't like to use me own knife
to cut down."

As none of the others felt disposed to lend their knives for such a
purpose, they looked at each other in silence.

"Mayhap," said the rough-looking miner who had been hailed by McLeod as
Webster--"mayhap the knife o' the corpse is lyin' about."

The suggestion was a happy one. After a few minutes' search the rusty
knife of the murdered man was discovered, and with this Larry succeeded
in extracting from the wound over the heart of the body a piece of
steel, which had evidently been broken off the point of the knife, with
which the poor wretch had been slain. Larry held it up with a look of
triumph.

"I'll soon shew ye who's the murderer now, boys, av ye'll help me to
fill up the grave."

This was speedily accomplished; then the miners, hurrying in silence
from the spot, proceeded to the chief hotel of the place, in the
gambling-saloon of which they found the man Smith, _alias_ Black Jim,
surrounded by gamblers, and sitting on a corner of the monte table
watching the game. Larry went up to him at once, and, seizing him by
the collar, exclaimed--"I've got ye, have I, ye murderer, ye black
villain! Come along wid ye, and git yer desarts--call a coort, boys,
an' sot up Judge Lynch."

Instantly the saloon was in an uproar. Smith turned pale as death for a
moment, but the blood returned with violence to his brazen forehead; he
seized Larry by the throat, and a deadly struggle would speedily have
taken place between the two powerful men had not Ned Sinton entered at
the moment, and, grasping Smith's arms in his Herculean gripe, rendered
him helpless.

"What, comrades," cried Black Jim, with an oath, and looking fiercel