It was a dark night, with scarcely a star visible, the only gleam of radiance coming from a light across the gulch, which he knew burned in the shaft-house of the La Rosita.

Everything about was still, with the intense silence of mountain solitude.  Not a breath of air stirred the motionless cedars.  Cautiously he circled the black cabin, every nerve taut for struggle, every sense alert.  He found nothing to reward his search—­whoever the coward had been, he had disappeared among the rocks, vanishing completely in the black night.  The fellow had not even waited to learn the effect of his shot.  He had fired pointblank into the lighted room, sighting at Westcott’s head, and then ran, assured no doubt the speeding bullet had gone straight to the mark.  It was not until he came back to the open door that the miner thought of his companion.  What had become of Jose?  Could it be that the Mexican was hit?  He entered, shrinking from the task, yet resolute to learn the truth; felt his way along the wall as far as the fireplace, and stirred the embers into flame.  They leaped up, casting a flickering glow over the interior.  A black, shapeless figure, scarcely discernible as a man, lay huddled beneath the table.  Westcott bent over it, feeling for the heart and turning the face upward.  There was no visible mark of the bullet wound, but the body was limp, the face ghastly in the grotesque dance of the flames.  The assassin had not wasted his shot—­Jose Salvari would never see Mexico again.

CHAPTER XIV:  LACY LEARNS THE TRUTH

Westcott straightened the body out, crossing the dead hands, and covered the face with a blanket stripped from a bunk.  The brief burst of flame died down, leaving the room in semi-darkness.  The miner was conscious only of a feeling of dull rage, a desire for revenge.  The shot had been clearly intended for himself.  The killing of Jose had been a mere accident.  In all probability the murderer had crept away believing he had succeeded in his purpose.  If he had lingered long enough to see any one emerge from the hut, he would naturally imagine the survivor to be the Mexican.  Good!  This very confidence would tend to throw the fellow off his guard; he would have no fear of Jose.

Westcott’s heart rose in his throat as he stood hesitating.  The dead man was only a Mexican, a servant, but he had been faithful, had proven himself an honest soul; and he had died in his service, as his substitute.  All right, the affair was not going to end now; this was war, and, while he might not know who had fired the fatal shot, he already felt abundantly satisfied as to who had suggested its efficacy.  There was only one outfit to be benefited by his being put out of the way—­Bill Lacy’s gang.  If they already had Fred Cavendish killed, or held prisoner in their power, it would greatly simplify matters if he should meet death accidentally, or at the hands of parties unknown.  Why not?  Did he not stand alone between them and fortune?  Once his lips were sealed, who else could combat their claims?  No one; not a human being knew his secret—­except the little he had confided that afternoon to Stella Donovan.