These miners were the finest men at Big Draw.  They worked hard and minded their own business.  They were not given to much talk, due, no doubt, to long years in the wilderness.  Neither were they carried away by any sudden impulse on the spur of the moment.  They never had anything in common with Curly and his gang, although they had often listened to their vapid boastings.  So now when they learned of the despicable affair up the narrow creek, they did not take matters into their own hands, and visit upon the miscreants swift and dire punishment.  They decided, after a brief consultation with Frontier Samson, to keep close guard upon Curly and hand him over to the Mounted Police, who were expected back the next day.  His companions would be allowed their freedom until needed.

“Such actions must be stopped,” one big weather-beaten veteran of many trails declared.  “Curly and his bunch, as well as all others of such breed, must learn first as last that the Police are here to give British justice, and a fair trial to every man, no matter who he is.  It’s not for any of us to deal with such brutes as Curly and his gang.”

“I agree with you, Tom,” another replied.  “But it’s a pity we didn’t hear sooner about what was taking place up the draw.  We’d a been there in no time.  I can’t understand how that Indian Titsla learned the news.  He was here yesterday selling meat, but he never mentioned a word to us.”

“I imagine he thought the hull bunch of yez was in the plot,” Samson replied, “an’ so he hit the trail fer Glen West as fast as he could.  That’s the way with them Injuns.”  Then he turned suddenly and walked over to Shorty.  “Say, old man,” he began, “rustle up some grub fer them Injuns outside, will ye?  I’d like to give ’em a good feed before they leave.  An’ hand out something to the rest of us while yer at it.  I’m most starved, an’ I guess the rest are, too.  I’ll foot the bill.”

In less than an hour Shorty had the Indians fed, and when Samson had provided each with a large plug of tobacco, they all left in the best of spirits for Glen West.

Reynolds’ entire solicitude was for Glen.  He thought not of himself, and paid little heed to the miners as they discussed Curly and his companions.  His only concern was for her who was sitting in the one arm-chair the room contained with such a weary look in her eyes.  The stern expression had vanished from her face, and she was the real Glen again.  She did not care to talk, although she listened intently to everything that was said.  But after the miners had left, and she sat down to the supper Shorty had prepared, she became more animated.

“Oh, I am so glad that we are alone at last!” and she breathed a deep sigh of relief.  “It seems as if I have had a fearful dream.”

“You’ll be all right, Miss, as soon as ye git a good night’s sleep,” Samson replied.  “Yer a bit used up at present.”