“Tell me, Mrs. Levins; perhaps I can help you?”
“You can!” The words burst sobbingly from the woman. “Maybe you can prevent it. But, oh, Miss Rosalind, I wasn’t to say anything—Clay told me not to. But I’m so afraid! Clay’s so hot-headed, and Trevison is so daring! I’m afraid they won’t stop at anything!”
“But what is it?” demanded Rosalind, catching something of the woman’s excitement.
“It’s about the machinery at the butte—the mining machinery. My God, you’ll never say I told you—will you? But they’re going to blow it up tonight—Clay and Trevison; they’re going to dynamite it! I’m afraid there will be murder done!”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” The girl stood rigid, white, breathless.
“Oh, I ought to,” moaned the woman. “But I was afraid you’d tell—Corrigan—somebody—and—and they’d get into trouble with the law!”
“I won’t tell—but I’ll stop it—if there’s time! For your sake. Trevison is the one to blame.”
She inquired about the location of the butte; the shortest trail, and then ran out to her horse. Once in the saddle she drew a deep breath and sent the animal scampering into the flood of moonlight.
Down toward the cut the two men ran, and when they reached a gully at a distance of several hundred feet from the dynamite shed they came upon their horses. Mounting, they rode rapidly down the track toward the butte where the mining machinery was being erected. They had taken the handkerchiefs off while they ran, and now Trevison laughed with the hearty abandon of a boy whose mischievous prank has succeeded.