his hands aloft.

"Thank God! Thank God!" he cried, catching his breath convulsively.

Fay turned to look at him curiously. "We aren't that much out of the
woods," he remarked; "the other gang'll get in their work, don't you
fret."

"They never will, they never will!" cried the Easterner exultantly.
"They can't. We'll locate 'em all!" The tears welled over his eyes and
ran down his cheeks.

"What do you mean?" asked Fay, beginning to fear the excitement had
unsettled his companion's wits.

"Because they're there!" cried Bennington, pointing to the mouth of the
shaft near which he had been sitting. "Davidson, Slayton,
Arthur--they're all there, and they can't get away! I didn't know what
else to do. I had to do something!"

Fay cast an understanding glance at the young man's rifle, and sprang
to the entrance of the shaft. As though in direct corroboration of his
speech, Fay could perceive, just emerging from the shadow, the sinister
figure of the man Arthur creeping cautiously up the ladder, evidently
encouraged to an attempt to escape by the sound of the conversation
above. The Westerner snatched his pistol from his holster and
presented it down the shaft.

"Kindly return!" he commanded in a soft voice. The upward motion of the
dim figure ceased, and in a moment it had faded from view in the
descent. Fay waited a moment. "In five minutes," he announced in louder
tones, "I'm going to let loose this six-shooter down that shaft. I
should advise you gentlemen to retire to the tunnel." He peered down
again intently. A sudden clatter and thud behind him startled him. He
looked around. Bennington had fallen at full length across the stones,
and his rifle, falling, had clashed against the broken ore.

Fay, with a slight shrug of contempt at such womanish weakness, ran to
his assistance. He straightened the Easterner out and placed his folded
coat under his head. "He'll come around in a minute," he muttered. He
glanced toward the gulch and then back to the shaft. "Can't leave that
lay-out," he went on. He bent over the prostrate figure and began to
loosen the band of his shirt. Something about the boy's clothing
attracted his attention, so, drawing his knife, he deftly and gently
ripped away the coat and shirt. Then he arose softly to his feet and
bared his head.

"I apologize to you," said he, addressing the recumbent form; "you are
game."

In the fleshy part of the naked shoulder was a small round hole,
clotted a