She could hear Dalzene moving about near the kennels. Stealthily she raised the bar of the door, and opened it just a crack, the next moment the door slammed shut and the bar crashed into place. The other man had leaped for the opening. Stepping swiftly back the girl sent a bullet crashing through the door, and the man answered with a taunting laugh. “Try it agin, sis! If you hit me you git a cigar!” A loud cry from Dalzene brought her up, tense, listening. “Damn you, don’t you kill that gal--she’s mine! I’ll tend to her case.” In vain Dalzene sought for the great lead dog among the dogs in the corral, round and round the fence he walked trying to single him out in the gloom. The noontime dawn had not yet broken, and as the man stepped onto a mound of snow close beside the fence for a better view of the corral, his snowshoe caught upon an obstruction and he fell heavily. With a curse, he scrambled to his feet and kicked at the obstacle that had tripped him. It was immovable, but the kick had partially dislodged the loose snow from about it. Swiftly Dalzene dropped to his knees, and with his hands dug the snow away. The object was a little wooden cross, and placing his eyes close to its surface he read the inscription burned into the wood. STUART GORDON Died Jan. 13, 19--. Slowly the man rose to his feet and with lust-gleaming eyes, stood staring down into the snow, while in his brain, a new plan was born. With the journey to Myrtle accomplished and Gordon out of the way, he would have no further use for his confederate. He would watch his chance, shoot him from behind, and the loot and the girl would be his own. He glanced up. The man was watching him. He would play for time. Swiftly he walked to the cabin. “Just when was it you was expectin’ the old man back?” he asked, following the words with a hoarse laugh that told the girl that he knew. She answered nothing. Again the man spoke, changing his tactics: “Come on out, peaceable, an’ we won’t hurt you none,” he wheedled, “All I want is you should hit up to Nolan an’ fix it with the boys so they’ll let me back on the river. That’s all I want. Honest to God, it is. An’ they’ll do it if you tell ’em to.” Again, no answer. “All right, I got another proposition. Throw in with me, an’ we’ll stay here an’ work the old man’s claim. They ain’t no use tryin’ to buck me. I got you where I want you, an’ you ort to know it. The old man hain’t comin’ back. I jist stumbled onto his grave. How about it?” Silence from the cabin. Suddenly into Dalzene’s hate-crazed brain leaped the memory of that other day when he had talked to this girl and she had not deigned reply. It was the day of the miners’ meeting. A sudden fury flared within him. And his voice raised to a bellow: “Damn you! You will come out! Come out, I say! Or, By God, I’ll burn you out! Bar the door all you want to, you can’t bar fire! Come out here! Damn you! Do you hear?”