He watched her going in the moonlight.  Even her shadow was beautiful, he thought, but all his joy was grave.

She disappeared within the house, without once turning to see what he had done.  He could not know that from one of the darkened windows she presently peered forth and watched him depart from the hill.  He was not so assured as he had tried to make her think, and soberness dwelt within his breast.

Half an hour later he and old Dave were riding up the mountain in the moonlight.  The night from the eminence was glorious, now that the town was left behind.  Goldite lay far below in the old dead theatre of past activities, dotting the barren immensity with its softened lights like the little thing it was.  How remote it seemed already, with its vices, woes, and joys, its comedy and tragedy, its fevers, strifes, and toil, disturbing nothing of the vast serenity of the planet, ever rolling on its way.  How coldly the moon seemed looking on the scene.  And yet it had cast a shadow of a girl to set a man aflame.

Meantime Bostwick had been delayed in securing McCoppet’s attention.  The town was still excited over all that had happened; the saloons were full of men.  Culver had been an important person, needful to many of the miners and promoters of mining.  His loss was an aggravation, especially as his deputy, Lawrence, was away.

The more completely to allay suspicions that might by any possibility creep around the circle to himself, McCoppet had been the camp’s most active figure in organizing a posse, with the sheriff, to go out and capture Cayuse.  His reasons for desiring the half-breed’s end were naturally strong, nevertheless his active partisanship of law and justice excited no undesirable talk.  He was simply an influential citizen engaged in a laudable work.

It was late when at length he and Bostwick could snatch a few minutes to themselves.  The gambler’s first question then was something of a puzzle to Bostwick.

“Well, have you got that thirty thousand?”

“Got it?  Yes, I’ve got it,” Bostwick answered nervously, “but what is the good of it now?”

It was McCoppet’s turn to be puzzled.

“Anything gone wrong with Van Buren, or his claim?”

“Good heavens!  Isn’t it sufficient to have things all gone wrong with Culver?  What could be worse than that?”

The gambler flung his cigar away and hung a fresh one on his lip.

“Say, don’t you worry on Culver.  Don’t his deputy take his place?”

“His deputy?”

“Sure, his deputy—­Lawrence—­a man we can get hands down.”

Bostwick stared at him hopefully.

“You don’t mean to say this accident—­this crime—­is fortunate, after all?”

“It’s a godsend.”  McCoppet would have dared any blasphemy.

Bostwick’s relief was inordinate.

“Then what is the next thing to do?”

“Wait for Lawrence,” said the gambler.  Then he suddenly arose.  “No, we can’t afford the time.  He might be a week in coming.  You’ll have to go get him, to-morrow.”