Élise knew well the danger that went with her up the line. It laid strong hold upon her, as the loosened brake shot the bucket up the dizzy cable. As she was swept up higher and higher she could only hope and pray that the catastrophe which she knew was coming might be delayed until the level stretch above the Falls was reached, where the cables ran so near the ground she might descend in safety. She had given Joe the right number, and she knew that nothing short of death would keep him from heeding her words. She turned her thoughts to other things. Cautiously she raised her eyes above the rim of the bucket and scanned the winding trail. She saw men crouching behind boulders, but Firmstone was not in sight, and strength and courage returned. Her bucket swept up over the crest of the Falls, and her heart stood still, as it glided along swiftly, eating up the level distance to another rise. The saddle clipped over the sheave, swung for an instant, then stood still. She clambered out, down the low tower, then sped to the trail and waited. She rose to her feet, as from behind a sheltered cliff Firmstone emerged, stern, erect, determined. He caught sight of Élise. "What are you doing here?" he asked, fiercely. "To keep you from going to the mill." There was an answering fierceness in her eyes. "Well, you are not going to." He brushed her aside. "I am." She was again in his path. He took hold of her almost harshly. "Don't be a fool." "Am I? Listen." There was the glint of steel on steel in the meeting eyes. Echoing shots dulled by distance yet smote plainly on their ears. "Morrison's men are guarding the trail. They are in the cañon. You can't get through." Firmstone's eyes softened as he looked into hers. The set line broke for an instant, then he looked down the trail. Suddenly he spun around on his heel, wavered, then sank to the ground. Élise dropped on her knees beside him, mumbling inaudible words with husky voice. The hands that loosened the reddening collar of his shirt were firm and decided. She did not hear the grate of Zephyr's shoes. She was only conscious of other hands putting hers aside. His knife cut the clothes that hid the wound. Zephyr took his hat from his head. "Water," he said, holding out the hat. Élise returned from the brook with the brimming hat. The closed eyes opened at the cooling drops. "It's not so bad." He tried to rise, but Zephyr restrained him. "Not yet." Élise was looking anxiously above the trail. Zephyr noted the direction. "No danger. 'Twas Morrison. He's done for." Three or four miners were coming down the trail. They paused at the little group. Zephyr looked up. "You're wanted. The old man's hit." A litter was improvised and slowly and carefully they bore the wounded man down the trail. Zephyr was far in advance. He returned. "It's all right. The gang's on the run." The little procession headed straight for the office, and laid their burden on the floor.