"Never mind, now," he said, "just get those folks away--I don't want any of my friends to get hurt. But I'll tell you right now, either I throw that man out or he'll have to shoot me down in cold blood." He backed away panting and the miners ran for cover, but Bunker Hill held his ground. "No, now listen, Denver," he admonished gently, "you don't know what you're doing. This man will kill you, as sure as hell." "He will not!" cried Denver grabbing up a heavy stone and advancing on the barricade, "I'm destined to be killed by my dearest friend--that's what old Mother Trigedgo told me! But this bastard ain't my friend and never was----" He paused, for Chatwourth's gun came down and pointed straight at his heart. "Stand back!" he shrilled and Denver leapt forward, hurling the rock with all his strength. Then he plunged through the smoke, swinging his arms out to clutch, and as he crashed through the barrier he stumbled over something that he turned back and pounced on like a cat. It was Chatwourth, but his body was limp and senseless--the stone had struck him in the head. CHAPTER XX JUMPERS AND TENORS They led Denver away as if he were a child, for the revulsion from his anger had left him weak; but Chatwourth, the killer, was carried back to town with his head lolling forward like a dead man's. The smash of the stone had caught him full on the forehead, which sloped back like the skull of a panther; and the blood, oozing down from his lacerated scalp, made him look more murderous than ever. But his hard, fighting jaw was hanging slack now and his dangerous eyes were closed; and the miners, while they carried him with a proper show of solicitude, chuckled and muttered among themselves. In a way which was nothing short of miraculous Denver Russell had walked in on Murray's boss jumper and knocked him on the head with a rock--and the shot which Chatwourth had fired in return had never so much as touched him. They put Chatwourth in an automobile and sent him over to Murray's camp; and then with broad smiles they gathered about Denver and took turns in slapping him on the back. He was a wonder, a terror, a proper fighting fool, the kind that would charge into hell itself with nothing but a bucket of water; and would he mind, when he felt a little stronger, just walking with them to their claims? Just a little, friendly jaunt, as one friend with another; but if Murray's hired junipers saw him coming up the trail that was all that would be required. They would go, and be quick about it, for they had been watching from afar and had seen what happened to Dave--but Denver brushed them aside and went up to his cave where he could be by himself and think.