One glance from where the little group were crouching, sheltered from
possible shots from the buildings, yet between them and the throng,
told Nolan and Shiner the alarm was real, the words were true. Like so
many maddened beasts, a gang of uncouth, unkempt, blood-thirsty beings
were now crowding up the narrow roadway from the bench below.

"My God, Mr. Geordie!" cried Nolan, in sudden agony of spirit, "I never
once dreamed of this!"

It was, indeed, a moment of terror. Here, barely a dozen in all, were
Nolan, Shiner, George Graham, and a few of the more intelligent, the
Americans, among the miners. There, possibly a hundred yards away, and
to the number of at least three hundred, a throng of human brutes,
utterly ignorant, superstitious, credulous, craftily inspired, were
now surging slowly forward up the heights. Two minutes would bring them
about the little party in overwhelming strength. Flight anywhere
downhill was impossible. The one refuge in sight was that beleaguered
little clump of buildings just beyond them up the slope, garrisoned by
a dozen desperate men who had shouted warning again and again, they'd
shoot down the first man that showed a head above the rocks.

But desperate straits need desperate measures. All on a sudden a tall,
slender youth, in the coarse dress of a railway fireman, sprang from
the midst of the pallid-faced group and, waving his handkerchief over
his head, called back, "Stay where you are one minute!" and then,
without a second's falter or swerve, straight for the nearest building,
a low, one-story log-house, the manager's office near the mouth of the
mine, waving his white signal high as his arm could reach, and
shouting, "Don't fire--we are friends!" George Graham swiftly climbed
for the upper level. One rifle flashed. One bullet whizzed over his
head, but he reached the road, then, both arms extended, rushed
straight for the door.

It was thrown open to admit him by Cawker, the manager, white-faced
almost as they whom Geordie had left. "Come out here!" cried Graham.
"See for yourself. Nolan, Shiner, with those few lads, are all that
have stood between you and the mob below. Every American is out of it.
They're coming to kill Nolan for turning against them. Call him up!
Call them all--There's barely a dozen. Then you've got just as many
more to stand by you!"

And Cawker had sense to see and to realize. "Call 'em yourself," said
he. "Don't shoot, men! These are friends come to