He crushed back an oath.  “Like him or not like him, I will save him if it be in the power of man.  Now will you go?”

“Yes,” she answered, and suddenly extended her arms.  “Kiss me first.”

With the magical pressure of her lips upon his, he swung into the saddle and spurred down the road.  It was a principle of his military training never to temporize with a mob—­he would strike hard, but he must have sufficient force behind him.  He reined up before the seemingly deserted camp, his horse flung back upon its haunches, white foam necking its quivering flanks.

“Sergeant!” The sharp snap of his voice brought that officer forward on the run.  “Where are the men?”

“Playin’ ball, most of ’em, sir, just beyond the ridge.”

“Are the horses out in herd?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sound the recall; arm and mount every man; bring them into Glencaid on the gallop.  Do you know the old Shasta mine?”

“No, sir.”

“Half-way up the hill back of the hotel.  You ’ll find me somewhere in front of it.  This is a matter of life or death, so jump lively now!”

He drove in his spurs, and was off like the wind.  A number of men were in the street, all hurrying forward in the same direction, but he dashed past them.  These were miners mostly, eager to have a hand in the man-hunt.  Here and there a rider skurried along and joined in the chase.  Just beyond the hotel, half-way up the hill, rifles were speaking irregularly, the white puffs of smoke blown quickly away by the stiff breeze.  Near the centre of this line of skirmishers a denser cloud was beginning to rise in spirals.  Brant, perceiving the largest group of men gathered just before him, rode straight toward them.  The crowd scattered slightly at his rapid approach, but promptly closed in again as he drew up his horse with taut rein.  He looked down into rough, bearded faces.  Clearly enough these men were in no fit spirit for peace-making.

“You damn fool!” roared one, hoarsely, his gun poised as if in threat, “what do you mean by riding us down like that?  Do you own this country?”

Brant flung himself from the saddle and strode in front of the fellow.  “I mean business.  You see this uniform?  Strike that, my man, and you strike the United States.  Who is leading this outfit?”

“I don’t know as it’s your affair,” the man returned, sullenly.  “We ain’t takin’ no army orders at present, mister.  We ’re free-born American citizens, an’ ye better let us alone.”

“That is not what I asked you,” and Brant squared his shoulders, his hands clinched.  “My question was, Who is at the head of this outfit? and I want an answer.”

The spokesman looked around upon the others near him with a grin of derision.  “Oh, ye do, hey?  Well, I reckon we are, if you must know.  Since Big Jim Larson got it in the shoulder this outfit right yere hes bin doin’ most of the brain work.  So, if ye ‘ve got anythin’ ter say, mister officer man, I reckon ye better spit it out yere ter me, an’ sorter relieve yer mind.”