doing here? Had Trixit escaped him?

In his exhausted state he was unable to formulate a question which even
then he doubted if the Chinaman could understand. So he simply watched
him lazily, and with a certain kind of fascination, until he should
finish his writing and turn round. His long pigtail, which seemed
ridiculously disproportionate to his size,--the pigtail which he
remembered had streamed into the air in his flight,--had partly escaped
from the discovered hat under which it had been coiled. But what was
singular, it was not the wiry black pigtail of his Mongolian fellows,
but soft and silky, and as the firelight played upon it, it seemed of a
shining chestnut brown! It was like--like--he stopped--was he dreaming
again? A long sigh escaped him.

The figure instantly turned. He started. It was Cissy Trixit! There
was no mistaking that charming, sensitive face, glowing with health and
excitement, albeit showing here and there the mark of the pigment with
which it had been stained, now hurriedly washed off. A little of it had
run into the corners of her eyelids, and enhanced the brilliancy of her
eyes.

He found his tongue with an effort. "What are you doing here?" he asked
with a faint voice, and a fainter attempt to smile.

"That's what I might ask about you," she said pertly, but with a slight
touch of scorn; "but I guess I know as well as I do about the others. I
came here to see my father," she added defiantly.

"And you are the--the--one--I chased?"

"Yes; and I'd have outrun you easily, even with your horse to help
you," she said proudly, "only I turned back when you went down into that
prospector's hole with your horse and his broken neck atop of you."

He groaned slightly, but more from shame than pain. The young girl took
up a glass of whiskey ready on the table and brought it to him. "Take
that; it will fetch you all right in a moment. Popper says no bones are
broken."

Masterton waived the proffered glass. "Your father--is he here?" he
asked hurriedly, recalling his mission.

"Not now; he's gone to the station--to--fetch--my clothes," she said,
with a little laugh.

"To the station?" repeated Masterton, bewildered.

"Yes," she replied, "to the station. Of course you don't know the news,"
she added, with an air of girlish importance. "They've stopped all
proceedings against him, and he's as free as you are."

Masterton tried to rise, but another groan escaped him. He was really
in pain.