The men growled an assent, and after binding the captives’ arms, hustled them off toward camp, in double quick time, muttering threats of vengeance.  Fearless Frank and Calamity then carefully raised the stricken road-agent, and bore him to the cabin, where he was laid upon the couch.  Of course, all was now excitement.

Redburn and Alice set to work to dress the bleeding wound, with Jane and the “General” looking on to see that nothing was left undone.  Fearless Frank stood apart from the rest, his arms folded across his breast, a grave, half-doubtful expression upon his handsome, sun-browned features.

Anita was not in the room at the time, but she came in a moment later, and stood gazing about her in wondering surprise.  Then, her eyes rested upon Fearless Frank for the first, and she grew deathly white; she trembled in every limb; a half-frightened, half-pitiful look came into her eyes.

The young man in scarlet was similarly effected.  His cheeks blanched; his lips became firmly compressed; a mastering expression fell from his dark magnetic orbs.

There they stood, face to face, a picture of doubt; of indifferent respect, of opposite strong passions, subdued to control by a heavy hand.

None of the others noticed them; they were alone, confronting each other; trying to read the other’s thoughts; the one penitent and craving forgiveness, the other cold almost to sternness, and yet not unwilling to forgive and forget.

Deadwood Dick’s wound was quickly and skillfully dressed; it was not dangerous, but was so exceedingly painful that the pangs soon brought him back to consciousness.

The moment he opened his eyes he saw Fearless Frank and Anita—­perceived their position toward each other, and that it would require only a single word to bridge the chasm between them.  A hard look came into his eyes as they gazed through the holes in the mask, then he gazed at Alice—­sweet piquant Alice—­and the hardness melted like snow before the spring sunshine.

“Thank God it was no deeper,” he said, sitting upright, and rubbing the tips of his black-glove fingers over the patches that covered the gash, “Although deucedly bothersome, it is not of much account.”

To the surprise of all he sprung to his feet, and strode to the door.  Here he stopped, and looked around for a few moments, sniffing at the cool mountain breeze, as a dog would.  A single cedar tree stood by the cabin, its branches, bare and naked, stretching out like huge arms above the doorway.  And it was at these the road-agent gazed, a savage gleam in his piercing black eyes.

After a few careful observations, he turned his face within the cabin.

“Justin McKenzie,” he said, gazing at the young man, steadily, “I want you to do me a service.  Go to my camp, and say to my men that I desire their presence here, together with the two prisoners, and a couple of stout lariats, with nooses at the end of them.  Hurry, now!”