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,
José, 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.

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