“I’m coming, Beatrice,” some one said in the coverts.  Her cries, uttered when her father fell, had not gone unheard.  In the last stages of exhaustion, deathly pale yet with a face of iron, Ben came reeling toward them out of the moonlight.

XLII

Ben walked quietly into the circle of firelight and stood at Beatrice’s side.  But while Ray and Chan gazed at him as if he were a spectre from the grave, Beatrice’s only impulse was one of immeasurable and unspeakable thankfulness.  No fate on earth was so dreadful but that it would be somewhat alleviated by the fact of his presence:  just the sight of him, standing beside her, put her in some vague way out of Ray’s power to harm.  Exhausted, reeling, he was still the prop of her life and hope.

“Here I am,” he said quietly.  “The letter’s in my pocket.  Do what you want with me—­but let Beatrice go.”

His words brought Ray to himself in some degree at least.  The ridiculous fear of the moment before speedily passed away.  Why, the man was exhausted—­helpless in their hands—­and the letter was in his pocket.  It meant triumph—­nothing else.  All Ray’s aims had been attained.  With Ben’s death the claim, a fourth of which had been his motive when he had slain Ezram, would pass entirely to him,—­except for such share as he would have to give Chan.  His star of fortune was in the sky.  It was his moment of glory,—­long-awaited but enrapturing him at last.

Neilson lay seriously wounded, perhaps dead by now.  Whatever his injuries, he would not go back with them to share in the gold of the claim.  The girl, also, was his prey,—­to do with what he liked.

“I see you’ve come,” he answered.  “You might as well; we’d have found you to-morrow.”  His voice was no longer flat, but rather exultant, boasting.  “You thought you could get away—­but we’ve shown you.”

Ben nodded.  “You are—­” he strained for the name he had heard Beatrice speak so often—­“Ray Brent?” His eyes fell to the form of Neilson, wounded beyond the fire.  “I see you’ve been at your old job—­killing.  It was you who killed Ezra Melville.”

Ray smiled, ever so faintly:  this was what he loved.  “You’re talking to the right man.  Anything you’d like to do about it?”

Ben’s face hardened.  “There is nothing I can do, now.  You came too late.  But I would have had something to do if I had my rifle.  I’m glad it was you, not Beatrice’s father.  I ask you this—­will you accept my proposition.  To take Ezram’s letter, destroy it and me too—­and let the girl go in safety?”

Beatrice stretched her bound arms and touched his hairy wrist.  “No, Ben,” she told him quietly.  “There’s no use of trying to make such a bargain as that.  Men that murder—­and assault women,—­won’t keep their word.”

“They were about to attack you, were they?” His voice dropped a tone; otherwise it seemed the same.