In fact, the major told so spirited a story, that most of the inhabitants strolled up, one after another, to look at the innovator, while that individual himself, with the modesty which seems inseparable from true greatness, retired to the most secluded of the three apartments into which the cave was divided, and declined all the attentions which were thrust upon him.

The afternoon had faded almost into evening, when a decrepit figure, in a black dress and bonnet, approached the cave, and gave Spidertracks a new element for the thrilling report he had composed and mentally rearranged during his few hours of duty as jailer.

“Beats the dickens,” muttered the reporter to himself, “how these Sisters of Charity always know when a tough case has been caught.  Natural enough in New York.  But where did she come from?  Who told her?  Cross, beads, and all.  Hello!  Oh, Louise Mattray, you’re a deep one; but it’s a pity your black robe isn’t quite long enough to hide the very tasty dress you wore this morning?  Queer dodge, too—­wonder what it means?  Wonder if she’s caught sight of the major, and don’t want to be recognized?”

The figure approached.

“May I see the prisoner?” she asked.

“No one has a better right, Mrs. Mattray,” said the guardian of the cave, with a triumphant smile, while the poor woman started and trembled.  “Don’t be frightened—­no one is going to hurt you.  Heard all about it, I suppose?—­know who just missed being the victim?”

“Yes,” said the unhappy woman, entering the cave.

When she emerged it was growing quite dark.  She passed the reporter with head and vail down, and whispered: 

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” said the reporter, quickly.  “Going to stay until you see how things go with him?”

She shook her head and passed on.

The sky grew darker.  The reporter almost wished it might grow so dark that the prisoner could escape unperceived, or so quickly that a random shot could not find him.  There were strange noises in camp.

The storekeeper, who never traveled except by daylight, was apparently harnessing his mules to the wagon—­he was moving the wagon itself to the extreme left of the camp, where there was nothing to haul but wood, and even that was still standing in the shape of fine old trees.

There seemed to be an unusual clearness in the air, for Spidertracks distinctly heard the buzz of some earnest conversation.  There seemed strange shadows floating in the air—­a strange sense of something moving toward him—­something almost shapeless, yet tangible—­something that approached him—­that gave him a sense of insecurity and then of alarm.  Suddenly the indefinable something uttered a yell, and resolved itself into a party of miners, led by the gallant and aggrieved major himself, who shouted: 

“Lynch the scoundrel, boys—­that’s the only thing to do!”