But here was their lack. The men they had counted on, one man in particular on whose account many of their number had braved the guard and threatened the owners—one man, Long Nolan himself, refused point blank to have aught to do with them or their plans. Another man, he whose son lay dying in the village, shot down by the guards, was there, sad-eyed yet stern-faced, to stay and dissuade them. The one train up from the East that day—the only one that could come, for now the road was blown out in a dozen places down the gorge—had brought with it Nolan and Shiner, with two or three friends at their back, and Nolan and Shiner, in spite of their wrongs, were pleading hard for peace, pleading so hard, so earnestly, that by 5 P.M. many a man, American born, had seen the force of their reasoning and had stepped back from the front.
But among the killed was a poor lad from the mountains of Bohemia. Among the vengeful throng were swarms of foreigners who could understand little or nothing of what Nolan and his friends were saying, and who speedily would have scorned it could they have understood, for at five o'clock another speaker took the stand, a man of the people he called himself, a foreigner long on our shores, yet fluent in the language of the Slavs, and in ten minutes the torrent was turned. With terror in his eyes, a man who had long worked with Nolan, a foreigner, too, came running to the silent, anxious little group of Anglo-Saxons. "Nolan—Nolan," he cried. "He says you was traitor! He says you was gone to Argenta and told all their secrets, and you was bought off—bribed—and you bring strangers to help you! He says you and they are just spies, an' now they come for you!"
One glance from where the little group were crouching, sheltered from possible shots from the buildings, yet between them and the throng, told Nolan and Shiner the alarm was real, the words were true. Like so many maddened beasts, a gang of uncouth, unkempt, blood-thirsty beings were now crowding up the narrow roadway from the bench below.
"My God, Mr. Geordie!" cried Nolan, in sudden agony of spirit, "I never once dreamed of this!"
It was, indeed, a moment of terror. Here, barely a dozen in all, were Nolan, Shiner, George Graham, and a few of the more intelligent, the Americans, among the miners. There, possibly a hundred yards away, and to the number of at least three hundred, a throng of human brutes, utterly ignorant, superstitious, credulous, craftily inspired, were now surging slowly forward up the heights. Two minutes would bring them about the little party in overwhelming strength. Flight anywhere downhill was impossible. The one refuge in sight was that beleaguered little clump of buildings just beyond them up the slope, garrisoned by a dozen desperate men who had shouted warning again and again, they'd shoot down the first man that showed a head above the rocks.
But desperate straits need desperate measures. All on a sudden a tall, slender youth, in the coarse dress of a railway fireman, sprang from the midst of the pallid-faced group and, waving his handkerchief over his head, called back, "Stay where you are one minute!" and then, without a second's falter or swerve, straight for the nearest building, a low, one-story log-house, the manager's office near the mouth of the mine, waving his white signal high as his arm could reach, and shouting, "Don't fire—we are friends!" George Graham swiftly climbed for the upper level. One rifle flashed. One bullet whizzed over his head, but he reached the road, then, both arms extended, rushed straight for the door.
It was thrown open to admit him by Cawker, the manager, white-faced almost as they whom Geordie had left. "Come out here!" cried Graham. "See for yourself. Nolan, Shiner, with those few lads, are all that have stood between you and the mob below. Every American is out of it. They're coming to kill Nolan for turning against them. Call him up! Call them all—There's barely a dozen. Then you've got just as many more to stand by you!"
And Cawker had sense to see and to realize. "Call 'em yourself," said he. "Don't shoot, men! These are friends come to aid us!" he cried, running up and down in front of the loop-holes. "Come on, Nolan and all of you," he added, for Graham had gone bounding half-way back again, and, like so many goats, the threatened party came scrambling out of their shelter and up the steep incline, while afar down the hill-side rose a yell of baffled rage and vengeance.
"Hold the rest of them whatever you do!" shouted Geordie, again racing back. "Don't let that gang over the edge or you're gone!" And again the brown barrels of the rifles thrust forth from the wooden walls and were turned on the bend of the road. Almost breathless, Long Nolan, and with him the little squad of adherents, came running up to the door. "Inside, quick as you can!" shouted Cawker. "We've got to give those blood-hounds a lesson."
Even as he spoke a shot struck the thick, iron hinge of the heavy door, the lead spattering viciously. Another ripped through the casement of the nearest window, and a shiver of glass was heard within, as the bullet spun through the shade of a lamp swinging from the beam above. Cawker ducked, unaccustomed to such sounds, and dove to the interior. Old Nolan, soldier of the Civil War and veteran of many an Indian skirmish, disdained to notice it. Geordie, bemoaning the luck that had left his pet rifle in Denver, busied himself with Nolan in "herding" the party within before himself following. Then Shiner was found missing.