listening, for he could not sleep. It was not very long before
he heard some person's steps close by his hut, and a muttering of
smothered voices. The steps passed on; and then; after the lapse of
about ten minutes, he heard a shot--a scream--and hurried footsteps
running close past his hut. He lay in bed, determined not to go out,
as he feared that this was only a _ruse_ on the part of the thieves to
induce him to open his door. But soon he heard shouts outside, as of
persons in pursuit of some one, and jumping out of bed, he ran out
half dressed and joined in the chase.

Now, this is what had happened during the ten minutes that he had lain
in bed listening. The thieves had stolen past his store, as he had
heard them, and gone forward to the restaurant kept by the Spaniard.
They looked into the bar, and through the chinks of the wood they saw
Lopez counting over the money he had taken during the day. The bar was
closed, but the men knocked at the door for admission. Lopez asked
what they wanted; the reply was that they wished for admission to have
a drink. After some demur, Lopez at last opened the door, and the men
entered. Nobblers were ordered, and while Lopez was reaching for a
bottle, one of the thieves, named Brooke, made a grab at the money
lying in the open drawer. The landlord saw his hand, and instantly
snatching up a large Spanish knife which lay behind the counter, he
made a lunge at Brooke, and so fiercely did he strike that the knife
ripped up the man's abdomen. With a yell of rage, Brooke drew his
revolver, instantly shot Lopez through the head, and he fell dead
without a groan.

Meanwhile the other thieves had fled; and now Brooke himself, holding
his wound together with his hand, ran out of the house, through the
street of tents, across the lead, and into the bush. But the hue and
cry had been raised; the diggers bundled out of their tents, and
before the murderer had reached the cover of the bush, already a dozen
men were on his track. It was full moon, and they could see him
clearly, holding on his way, avoiding the crab-holes, and running at a
good speed notwithstanding his fearful wound. Among the foremost of
the pursuers were a trooper and an active little fellow who is now
living in Majorca. They got nearer and nearer to Brooke, who turned
from time to time to watch their advance. The trooper was gaining upon
him fast; but when within about fifteen yards of him Brooke turned,
took aim with his