Meanwhile, there was commotion in the bunk house. The first sharp report, accompanied by Jim's yell, woke every man within. The subsequent fusilade engendered a belief that the enemy was in possession of a Maxim gun, and brought every man to the floor, thankful that he was under better cover than if he stood behind the door, through the panel of which all the bullets had penetrated. "How did he escape?" demanded one, addressing Jim, who was holding his left hand to his ear. "I don't know," said the wounded man ruefully. "You can search me." "Seems from that shooting that we'd better search outside. What in the fiend's name made him batter the door?" "Sorry he left us, I suppose," muttered Dean, grimly. "Knocking because he wanted to come in again." "How did he get his gun?" "Hanged if I know," said the questioned man, impatiently. "But you were on guard. You ought to know something about it." "Look here," said Jim. "There's no use in talking. He got out some way, and he's got his gun some way. He's holding us up, and we must make terms with him." "But where is he?" "I tell you I don't know! The bullet came from the direction of the mine. Now, one of you boys throw up your hands, and go outside and hail him." At this command, Jim met the first rebellion against his authority. "Go outside yourself. It is you who have brought all this upon us. You shot him through the shoulder; you proposed capturing him, and it was you who fell asleep last night and let him escape." Jim did not combat their charges. "All right," he said. "I'll go out, and you sit here and shiver while I enjoy a little conversation with him." Raising his hands above his head, Dean stepped across the threshold into the open, and stood like an oriental about to begin his prayers. He saw at once the wall that had been built during the night, and then caught sight of Stranleigh standing behind it. Pulling out a white handkerchief, and waving it, Dean proceeded towards the mine. "Have you got a revolver?" shouted Stranleigh. "No," answered Dean. "Then put down your hands, and approach as a Christian should." Jim obeyed. "Now stand where you are," said Stranleigh, when the other was within four or five yards of the wall. "I see your ear is bleeding. That was rather a neat shot of mine, don't you think?" "It was," admitted Dean, without enthusiasm. "When you shot at my shoulder, you had a bigger mark." "Oh, not so very much," growled Dean. "My ears are celebrated for their size." "You'd better wrap it up in this handkerchief," commented Stranleigh, rolling it up in a ball, and flinging it towards Jim. The wounded man tied it round his voluminous ear. "And now," said Stranleigh, "get through with your parley as soon as possible, then go to Miss Armstrong, who will very expertly attend to your hurt. But in order to win the privilege of surgical treatment, you must recognise that you are a prisoner." "A prisoner?" echoed Dean.