She looked helplessly into his face. "You--you don't like him," she
faltered; "I know you don't. But--but you will help him, won't you,
for my sake?"
He crushed back an oath. "Like him or not like him, I will save him if
it be in the power of man. Now will you go?"
"Yes," she answered, and suddenly extended her arms. "Kiss me first."
With the magical pressure of her lips upon his, he swung into the
saddle and spurred down the road. It was a principle of his military
training never to temporize with a mob--he would strike hard, but he
must have sufficient force behind him. He reined up before the
seemingly deserted camp, his horse flung back upon its haunches, white
foam necking its quivering flanks.
"Sergeant!" The sharp snap of his voice brought that officer forward
on the run. "Where are the men?"
"Playin' ball, most of 'em, sir, just beyond the ridge."
"Are the horses out in herd?"
"Yes, sir."
"Sound the recall; arm and mount every man; bring them into Glencaid on
the gallop. Do you know the old Shasta mine?"
"No, sir."
"Half-way up the hill back of the hotel. You 'll find me somewhere in
front of it. This is a matter of life or death, so jump lively now!"
He drove in his spurs, and was off like the wind. A number of men were
in the street, all hurrying forward in the same direction, but he
dashed past them. These were miners mostly, eager to have a hand in
the man-hunt. Here and there a rider skurried along and joined in the
chase. Just beyond the hotel, half-way up the hill, rifles were
speaking irregularly, the white puffs of smoke blown quickly away by
the stiff breeze. Near the centre of this line of skirmishers a denser
cloud was beginning to rise in spirals. Brant, perceiving the largest
group of men gathered just before him, rode straight toward them. The
crowd scattered slightly at his rapid approach, but promptly closed in
again as he drew up his horse with taut rein. He looked down into
rough, bearded faces. Clearly enough these men were in no fit spirit
for peace-making.
"You damn fool!" roared one, hoarsely, his gun poised as if in threat,
"what do you mean by riding us down like that? Do you own this
country?"
Brant flung himself from the saddle and strode in front of the fellow.
"I mean business. You see this uniform? Strike that, my man, and you
strike the United States. Who is leading this outfit?"