There was a faint moaning among the distant rocks as if hidden caverns were filled with elves at play.

It was weird, lonely, desolate,--straining eyes beholding everywhere the same scene of deserted wilderness.
Old Hicks lay flat under protection of the ore-dump, his ear pressed close to the earth, his contracted eyes searching anxiously those dark hollows in front, a Winchester, cocked and ready, within the grasp of his hand.

Above, Irish Mike, sniffing the air as though he could smell danger like a pointer dog, hung far out across the parapet of rock, every eager nerve tingling in the hope of coming battle.

Winston remained in the cabin door, behind him the open room black and silent, his loaded Winchester between his feet, gamely struggling to overcome a vague foreboding of impending trouble, yet alert and ready to bear his part.

It was then that Stutter Brown led the saddled pony forward from out the concealment of bushes.