“They have put on more men, senor—­a night shift.  Last night I went in our drift clear to the end, and put my ear to the rock.  It was far away, but I hear.”

“No, no, Jose; that’s impossible.  Why, their tunnel as over a hundred yards away; not even the sound of dynamite would penetrate that distance through solid rock.  You heard your heart beat.”

“No, senor,” and Jose was upon his feet gesticulating.  “It was the pick—­strike, strike, strike; then stop an’ begin, strike, strike, strike again.  I hear, I know.”

“Then they must be running a lateral, hoping to cut across our vein somewhere within their lines.”

“And will that give them the right, senor?”

Westcott sat, his head resting on one hand, staring thoughtfully into the dying fire; the yellow flame of the oil lamp between them on the table flickered in the draft from the open window.  Here was a threatening combination of forces.

“I am not sure, Jose,” he answered slowly.  “The mining law is full of quirks, although, of course, the first discoverer of a lead is entitled to follow it—­it’s his.  The trouble here is, that instead of giving notice of discovery, I have kept it a secret, and even blocked up the tunnel.  If the La Rosita gang push their drift in, and strike that same vein, they will claim original discovery, and I reckon they’d make it stick.  I didn’t suppose Lacy had the slightest idea we had struck colour.  Nobody knew it, but you and I, Jose.”

“Never I say a word, senor.”

“I am sure of that, for I know exactly where the news came from.  Lacy spilled the beans in a bit of misunderstanding we had last night down in Haskell.  My letters and telegrams East to Cavendish went wrong, and the news has come back here to those fellows.  They know just what we’ve struck, and how our tunnel runs; I was fool enough to describe it all to Cavendish and send him a map of the vein.  Now they are driving their tunnel to get in ahead of us.”

He got to his feet, bringing his fist down with such a crash on the table as to set the lamp dancing.

“But, by God, it’s not too late!  We’ve got them yet.  The very fact that Lacy is working a night shift is evidence he hasn’t uncovered the vein.  We’ll tear open that tunnel the first thing in the morning, Jose, and I’ll make proof of discovery before noon.  Then we’ll put a bunch of good men in here, and fight it out, if those lads get ugly.  Come on, let’s take a look in there to-night.”

He picked up the lamp, and turned.  At the same instant a sudden red glare flamed in the black of the open window, accompanied by a sharp report.  The bullet whizzed past Westcott’s head so closely as to sear the flesh, crashed into the lamp in his hand, extinguishing it, then struck something beyond.  There was no cry, no sound except a slight movement in the dark.  Westcott dropped to the floor, below the radius of dim light thrown by the few embers left in the fireplace, and revolver in hand, sought to distinguish the outlines of the window frame.  Failing in this, he crept noiselessly across the floor, unlatched the closed door, and emerged into the open air.