The tale is told of a Chinaman crossing a suspension footbridge, high over a winter torrent, from one part of a mining camp to another. An Indian ran to meet him. John Chinaman started back as quickly as he could on the swaying bridge. The faster Indian caught him, and, though miners on both shores sought to save the unfortunate “Chink” by a rain of bullets, it was too long range, and the Indian threw him to certain death in the river. But the Indians did not always win, and this, then, is the tale of an encounter between Hop Sing and Digger Dan. “In a game which held accountin', On an old Sierra mountain--” * * * * * “Whassa malla, to-o much nail-o ketchem clo'e (clothes)?” snorted Hop Sing, coming around to the side verandah with two pins in his hand, to where Miss Jo Halstead was embroidering an antimacassar in bright worsteds. “Oh, Sing, did you hurt your hand?” she cried. “'Nother boy heap mad.” “Another boy? Aren't you doing the washing?” “No do. Me--” but Jo had gone to the back yard. She found the tallest Chinaman she had ever seen, meekly bending to the washing, and quickly obeying the sharp orders rained upon his queue-circled poll by Hop Sing. “But--Sing,” protested Jo, stifling any sort of smile. “Him no good! No got place! Me pay one-dollar-hop him stop one month, Chinee house. He no pay. Me makem work.” “Yes, but--what is that? Those are shots on the stage road over the hill! Oh, it must be another holdup! And Rand is shotgun messenger on the stage today. Hark! Hear the horses running! They're coming--fast. They're trying to make the town!” “Ketchem, more horse run behind,” answered Sing, listening intently, his slanting eyes glittering. “Sing, you go and see what--” “Can do! You get that boy, make 'em wash, alle same. He no good! You look see?” Joe turned to spy the frightened deputy washerman wriggling under the verandah. “Bime-by I kill 'um,” remarked Sing, composedly. “No got time now. Missie Jo, wagon come, maybeso better you stop house-o.” Six horses topped the long hill, pulling the huge rockaway stage. They were coming at full speed, and the near wheeler was dripping with blood. A dead man hung over the high dashboard, where his feet had caught when he fell. Leaning far out over the team was a young man holding the reins in one hand, while he lashed the shot-crazed horses to their last ounce of speed with the fifteen-foot whip. His sawed-off shotgun lay on the seat beside him. It was Rand! “Oh, thank God!” moaned Joe, but in another moment, “Poor old Salt Peter! They must have killed him when he wouldn't stop. Sing--” but Hop Sing had vanished, leaving only his white apron across the wash bench.