She nodded to him slightly.  “I came here to refresh my memory,” she said, “as Mr. Hornsby thought I might be asked to give my evidence again at Blazing Star.”

Cass carelessly struck an aimless blow with his pick against the sod and did not reply.

“And you?” she queried.

“I stumbled upon the place just now while prospecting, or I shouldn’t be here.”

“Then it was you made these holes?”

“No,” said Cass, with ill-concealed disgust.  “Nobody but a stranger would go foolin’ round such a spot.”

He stopped, as the rude significance of his speech struck him, and added surlily, “I mean—­no one would dig here.”

The girl laughed and showed a set of very white teeth in her square jaw.  Cass averted his face.

“Do you mean to say that every miner doesn’t know that it’s lucky to dig wherever human blood has been spilt?”

Cass felt a return of his superstition, but he did not look up.  “I never heard it before,” he said, severely.

“And you call yourself a California miner?”

“I do.”

It was impossible for Miss Porter to misunderstand his curt speech and unsocial manner.  She stared at him and colored slightly.  Lifting her reins lightly, she said:  “You certainly do not seem like most of the miners I have met.”

“Nor you like any girl from the East I ever met,” he responded.

“What do you mean?” she asked, checking her horse.

“What I say,” he answered, doggedly.  Reasonable as this reply was, it immediately struck him that it was scarcely dignified or manly.  But before he could explain himself Miss Porter was gone.

He met her again that very evening.  The trial had been summarily suspended by the appearance of the Sheriff of Calaveras and his posse, who took Joe from that self-constituted tribunal of Blazing Star and set his face southward and toward authoritative although more cautious justice.  But not before the evidence of the previous inquest had been read, and the incident of the ring again delivered to the public.  It is said the prisoner burst into an incredulous laugh and asked to see this mysterious waif.  It was handed to him.  Standing in the very shadow of the gallows tree—­which might have been one of the pines that sheltered the billiard room in which the Vigilance Committee held their conclave—­the prisoner gave way to a burst of merriment, so genuine and honest that the judge and jury joined in automatic sympathy.  When silence was restored an explanation was asked by the Judge.  But there was no response from the prisoner except a subdued chuckle.

“Did this ring belong to you?” asked the Judge, severely, the jury and spectators craning their ears forward with an expectant smile already on their faces.  But the prisoner’s eyes only sparkled maliciously as he looked around the court.

“Tell us, Joe,” said a sympathetic and laughter-loving juror, under his breath.  “Let it out and we’ll make it easy for you.”