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.
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.