"Speak up, man!" and Lacy dragged him to a sitting position in no gentle fashion. "Who hit you?" "There--there was a fellow at that window there. I--I saw him from below, and crept up behind but he turned around just as I struck." "Who was he?" "I never saw his face. He hit me first." "He was at that window, you say?" "Yes; kneelin' down like he was lookin' into the room. Oh, Lord!" Lacy crunched over to the side of the shack, and bent down to get a better view. His fingers came in contact with the knife which upheld the sash, and he plucked it out, holding it up into the beam of light passing through the rent in the torn curtain. He stared at the curiously carved handle intently. "This is certainly hell," he said soberly. "That's Jim Westcott's jack-knife. He's been listening to all we said. Now we are up against it." "What's that?" The question came from Enright, still at the corner of the house, unable to tell what had happened. "Westcott has been here listening to our talk. He pried up the window with this knife, so he could hear. Moore caught him, and got knocked out." "He--he heard our talk in--in there," repeated the dazed lawyer, his lips trembling. "And--has got away? Good God! man, where has he gone? After the sheriff?" Lacy stared at him through the darkness, and burst into a roar of unrestrained laughter. "Who? Jim Westcott? The sheriff? Well, hardly at this stage of the game. That's your way down East, no doubt, but out in this country the style is different. No, sir; Westcott isn't after any sheriff. In the first place he hasn't any evidence. He knows a thing or two, but he can't prove it; and if we move faster than he does we'll block his game--see?" "What do you mean?" Lacy leaned forward, and hissed his answer into Enright's ear. "Put Cavendish where he can't get at him. There's no other chance. If Jim Westcott ever finds that fellow alive our goose is cooked. And we've got the advantage--we know where the man is." "And Westcott doesn't?" "Exactly, but he will know. He'll comb these hills until he finds the trail--that's Jim Westcott. Come on back inside, both of you, and I'll tell you my plan. No, there is no use trying to run him down to-night--a hundred men couldn't do it. What's that, Moore? Go on to the shaft-house, and let Dan fix you up. No, we won't need any guard. That fellow will never come back here again to-night. Come on, boys." The door closed behind them, shutting out the yellow glow, and leaving the hillside black and lonely. A bucket of rock rattled onto the dump, and Moore, limping painfully, swearing with every step, clambered up the dark trail toward the shaft-house.