And when Farriss looked again he did.

CHAPTER VII:  MISS DONOVAN ARRIVES

When the long overland train paused a moment before the ancient box car that served as the depot for the town of Haskell, nestled in the gulch half a mile away, it deposited Miss Stella Donovan almost in the arms of Carson, the station-agent, and he, wary of the wiles of women and the ethics of society, promptly turned her over to Jim Westcott, who had come down to inquire if the station-agent held a telegram for him—­a telegram that he expected from the East.

“She oughtn’t to hike to the Timmons House alone, Jim,” Carson said.  “This yere is pay-day up at the big mines, an’ the boys are havin’ a hell of a time.  That’s them yellin’ down yonder, and they’re mighty likely to mix up with the Bar X gang before mornin’, bein’ how the liquor is runnin’ like blood in the streets o’ Lundun, and there’s half a mile between ’em.”

In view of these disclosures, Miss Donovan welcomed the courteous acquiescence of Westcott, whom she judged to be a man of thirty-one, with force and character—­these written in the lines of his big body and his square, kind face.

“I’m Miss Stella Donovan of New York,” she said directly.

“And I,” he returned, with hat off in the deepening gloom, “am Jim Westcott, who plugs away at a mining claim over yonder.”

“There!” laughed the girl frankly.  “We’re introduced.  And I suppose we can start for the Timmons House.”

As her words trailed off there came again the sound of yelling, sharp cries, and revolver shots from the gulch below where lights twinkled faintly.

Laughing warmly, Westcott picked up her valise, threw a “So-long” to Carson, and with Miss Donovan close behind him, began making for the distant lights of the Timmons House.  As they followed the road, which paralleled a whispering stream, the girl began to draw him out skilfully, and was amazed to find that for all of his rough appearance he was excellently educated and a gentleman of taste.  Finally the reason came out.

“I’m a college man,” he explained proudly.  “So was my partner—­same class.  But one can’t always remain in the admirable East, and three years ago he and I came here prospecting.  Actually struck some pay-dirt in the hills yonder, too, but it sort of petered out on us.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”  Miss Donovan’s condolence was genuine.

“We lost the ore streak.  It was broken in two by some upheaval of nature.  We were still trying to find it when my partner’s father died and he went East to claim the fortune that was left.  I couldn’t work alone, so I drifted away, and didn’t come back until about four months ago, when I restaked the claim and went to work again.”

“You had persistence, Mr. Westcott,” the girl laughed.

“It was rewarded.  I struck the vein again—­when my last dollar was gone.  That was a month ago, I wired my old partner for help, but——­” He stopped, listening intently.