Fearless Frank grew livid at this last thrust. Forbearance is virtue, sometimes, but not always. In his case the Scarlet Boy felt that he could bear the taunts of the miner no longer. "You are a liar and a dastard!" he cried, fiercely. "Come on if you wish satisfaction, and I'll give it to you!" "I am ready, always, sir. I challenged you first; you have the choice!" retorted Ned, as cool as ever, while his enemy was all trembling with excitement. "Pistols, at fifty yards; to be fired until one or the other is dead!" was the prompt decision. "Good! Young lady, you will necessarily have to act as second for both of us. If I drop, leave my body where I fall, and it will be picked up by friends. If he falls, I will ride on to Deadwood, and send you out help to carry him in." Without delay the distance was guessed at, and each of the young men rode to position. Miss Terry, the beautiful second, took her place at one side of the gulch, midway between the antagonists, and when all was to readiness she counted: "One!" The right hands of the two youths were raised on a level, and the gleaming barrel of a pistol shone from each. "Two!" There was a sharp click! click! as the hammers of the weapons were pulled back at full cock. Each click meant danger or death. Harris was very white; so was Fearless Frank, but not so much so as the young woman who was to give the signal. "Three! _Fire!_" cried Alice, quickly; then, there was a flash, the report of two pistols, and Ned Harris fell to the ground without a groan. McKenzie ran to his side, and bent over him. "Poor fellow!" he murmured, rising, a few moments later--"poor Ned. _He is dead!_" It was Harris' request to be left where he fell. Accordingly he was laid on the grass by the roadside, his horse tethered near by, and then, accompanied by Alice, Justin McKenzie set out to Deadwood. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote C: Living characters] CHAPTER XI. THE POCKET GULCH MINES--INVADERS OF THEM. We see fit to change the scene once more back to the pocket gulch--the home of the sweet, sad-faced Anita. The date is one month later--one long, eventful month since Justin McKenzie shot down Ned Harris under the noonday sun, a short distance above Deadwood. Returning to the Flower Pocket by the route to the rugged transverse gulch, and thence through the gaping fissure, we find before us a scene--not of slumbering beauty, but of active industry and labor, such as was not here when we last looked into the flower-strewn paradise of the Hills. The flowers are for the most part still intact, though occasionally you will come across a spot where the hand of man hath blighted their growth. Where stood the little vine-wreathed cabin now may be seen a larger and more commodious log structure, which is but a continuation of the original.