path a
second boulder was upon him. He dodged it by a hair's breadth and fell
flat on his face, just as a stream of loose stone which the first flying
rock had dislodged sent him rolling and tumbling down the slope in an
avalanche of flying debris. For a minute he lay breathless while the
waste rattled past him, and then he looked up the hill. No movement of
his had started those great boulders. They had been launched by someone
from above, and as he raised his head cautiously he beheld a gaunt
figure standing outlined against the sky. It stood like a gibbet, its
head to one side, a pistol in its hand; but as Wiley moved the man
crouched and drew back as if he feared to be seen.

Who he was Wiley did not know, nor could he divine his animus in thus
attempting to take his life, but, being caught in the open without his
gun, he played safe and lay quiet where he had fallen. The wind howled
along the ridges and trailed off into silence and, looking around, Wiley
caught the wink of a lantern as it came across the flat from town. The
crash of the boulders as they bounded down the dump and then on through
the brush below had undoubtedly aroused some inquisitive citizen, who
was coming over to investigate. Wiley rose up quickly, for he did not
wish to be discovered, but as he started towards the trail he met the
ghost-man, creeping forward with his pistol ready to shoot.

At times like this a man acts by instinct, and Wiley Holman dropped to
the ground; then with the swiftness of an Indian he bellied off down the
hill, looking back after every lightning move. The man was a murderer, a
cold-blooded assassin; and, thinking him injured, he had been stealing
up to his hiding-place to give him the _coup de grace_. Wiley
rolled into a gulch and peered over the bank, his eyes starting out of
his head with fear; and then, as the lantern began to bob below him, he
turned and crept up the hill. Two trails led towards the mine, one on
either side of the dump, and as the wind swept down with a sudden gust
of fury, he ran up the farther trail. Once over the hill he could avoid
both his pursuers and, cutting a wide circle, slip back to his machine
and escape. The wind died to nothing as he neared the summit and he
turned and looked back down the trail. Something moved--it was the man,
his head twisted over his shoulder, his gun still held at a ready,
creeping waspishly up the path.

Wiley turned and fled, sick with rage at his own impote