Once she stopped, shaking with terror at what she took to be a grizzly in the path. It was only the fighting donkey still following the master whom he had adopted. He made his way to the very center of the mob. The French girl followed and, climbing onto a barrel, faced the crowd with flashing eyes. “Consider what you do! The judgment of le bon Dieu will be upon you!” “Aw! Choke her off! Pull her down, somebody.” But the three or four who tried to reach Mignon on her barrel next to the bound man on the horse beneath the hanging tree, fell victim to the “greatest battling jack in the state.” “My friend,” orated the old judge afterwards, in describing these events, “what mere man, however filled with tanglefoot, could face the wicked teeth, and hoofs, and kicks which had conquered wild Texas bulls, caused the mountain lion to cringe in his lair, and the invincible grizzly to flee across the Sierras?” At any rate, the little donkey was everywhere at once, biting, striking, kicking, squealing, with the venom and speed and precision of a rattlesnake, while Mignon railed, unmindful of Anthony's protests. “Ze blood on hees clothes! Bah! You 'ave all see 'ow he is carry home la petite so-hurt dog. Oui! ze dog of Monsieur Pete. Who is know where Monsieur Collins is go for new dog fight? Monsieur Pete! Who has anger at Monsieur Ant'ony for because I, Mignon, 'ave look once again at Monsieur, who is so kind to all who I ave pain? Monsieur Pete! Who is insult good girl? That's me. Monsieur Pete! Who is spend much money tonight, who yesterday was br-r-oke? Monsieur Pete! Who, zen, should you swing on ze rope?” She waited. There was absolute silence save for the crackle of the flaming pine-pitch torches. “Ver' well,” in a low voice. “I, me, Mignon, shall answer.” Again she paused. A long way down the canyon she heard horses galloping on the hard road. “Monsieur Pete!” she screamed, at the top of her voice. The mob struggled forward, yelling. “Ver' well!” she cried, snatching a silver-mounted pistol out of her bosom. “Come on! Ze jackass, he is ke-e-ll five! I, Mignon, I ke-e-ll five! Ten shall go to le diable before mon brave shall hang!” They hesitated, those in front pressing back from the certain death which awaited them. Mignon set her arms akimbo, the gun gleaming at her hip, and taunted them in contemptuous French. The horsemen had reached the camp and soon thundered into view. “What's this going on, anyway?” demanded the sheriff, angrily. “Anthony Barstow is innocent. These men can prove that they spent the night at Barstow's cabin. When I learned the truth, I came straight back. Buckeye Pete, you throw up your hands! You're wanted for the murder of Spotty Collins.” Mignon tore the noose from Anthony's neck, laughing and crying in true French abandon.