With sympathetic gentleness, and in all the tenderness possible, their eyes moist, and everything else forgotten excepting their sad task, Hicks and Winston kneeled on the hard rock and lifted the slender figure of Mercedes in their arms.  Slowly, without the exchange of a word, the little concourse turned in the darkness, and advanced in the direction of the cabin, bearing the silent burden.  They walked with bowed heads and careful steps, their hearts heavy.  With a faint whinny the girl’s deserted pony trotted forward from out the shadow where he had been left, sniffed at her trailing skirt with outstretched nose, and fell in behind, walking with head bent almost to the ground as though he also understood and mourned.  Winston glanced, marvelling, back at the animal, hastily brushing a tear from out his own eye; yet his lips remained set and rigid.  He felt no doubt about who it was Brown was seeking through the black night.  When they met, it would be a battle to the death.

Before the still open door of the cabin they silently lowered their burden in the shadow of the building.  An instant they stood there listening intently for any sound to reach them from out the surrounding night.  Then Winston, assuming the duty, stepped reluctantly forward endeavoring to peer within.  His heart throbbed from the pain of that sudden message of death he brought.

“Beth,” he called, perceiving no movement within, and compelling his voice to calmness.  “Miss Norvell.”

There was a slight movement near the farther wall, but it was the voice of the wounded sheriff which answered.

“Who are yer?  What was all that firin’ about just now?  Damn if I ain ‘t too weak ter git up, but I got a gun yere, an’ reckon I kin pull the trigger.”

“It’s Winston and Hicks.  We ’ve had a skirmish out beyond the dump.  Those fellows tried to blow up our shaft, and we caught them at it.  Is Miss Norvell here?”

“No, I reckon not; she was sittin’ yere talkin’ to me when that shootin’ begun, an’ then she ran out the door thar.  Anybody git hurt?”

“The little Mexican girl was killed.  We have brought her body here.”

“Good God!”

“And we ’ve also got a prisoner, sheriff.  It ’s that same Jack Burke you arrested me for killing.  He seems very much alive.”

There was a rustling back in the darkness, as if the man within was endeavoring to draw his body into a sitting posture.  Then he swore savagely, pounding his fist into the side of the bunk, as though seeking thus to relieve his feelings.

“Burke!” he fairly exploded at last, his anger appearing to stifle utterance.  “Jack Burke!  Hell!  Is that true?  Oh, Lord! but I wish I could git out o’ yere.  That damn Farnham swore out that warrant down in San Juan, ther blame, ornery cur.  It was a low-down, measly trick, an’ he actually had the nerve ter use me ter play out his game fer him.  Lord! if ever I git my hand on him I ’ll shut down hard.”