strike,
strike again. I hear, I know."

"Then they must be running a lateral, hoping to cut across our vein
somewhere within their lines."

"And will that give them the right, _senor_?"

Westcott sat, his head resting on one hand, staring thoughtfully into
the dying fire; the yellow flame of the oil lamp between them on the
table flickered in the draft from the open window. Here was a
threatening combination of forces.

"I am not sure, Jose," he answered slowly. "The mining law is full of
quirks, although, of course, the first discoverer of a lead is entitled
to follow it--it's his. The trouble here is, that instead of giving
notice of discovery, I have kept it a secret, and even blocked up the
tunnel. If the La Rosita gang push their drift in, and strike that
same vein, they will claim original discovery, and I reckon they'd make
it stick. I didn't suppose Lacy had the slightest idea we had struck
colour. Nobody knew it, but you and I, Jose."

"Never I say a word, _senor_."

"I am sure of that, for I know exactly where the news came from. Lacy
spilled the beans in a bit of misunderstanding we had last night down
in Haskell. My letters and telegrams East to Cavendish went wrong, and
the news has come back here to those fellows. They know just what
we've struck, and how our tunnel runs; I was fool enough to describe it
all to Cavendish and send him a map of the vein. Now they are driving
their tunnel to get in ahead of us."

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,
Jose, 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