This morning he was positively affable and, after briefly delivering many messages to Jack, turned toward Watson inquiringly.
The latter’s plan seemed a good one, so, leaving his horse, Jack proceeded at once to the mine. Reaching the shaft, who should spring lightly from the bucket but Mills himself! Instantly his glance fell on Jack, he threw his arms around him in an ecstasy of delight, overwhelming him with solicitous questions. “Oh, my dear boy!” he said, wiping his eyes, “forgive this emotion. Such unexpected pleasure completely unnerves me!”
Jack shook him rudely off, throwing up his right hand as he did so; and while Mills was still wiping his eyes, Sheriff Smith’s hand was laid on his shoulder and the words, “You are my prisoner!” quickly dried his tears. Turning toward the miners who had collected near, he said in an abused tone,—“Friends, what is the meaning of this?”
“I’ll explain that,” Sheriff Smith interjected. “Three indictments are pending against you: abduction, theft and robbery; but at Nootwyck you’ll get a chance to clear yourself.”
“Who accuses me of abduction?” Mills asked defiantly.
“Andrew Genung of Nootwyck,” was the calm reply.
“Now look here, Smith,” said Mills. “This is a plot concocted in the brain of that rascally nephew of Andrew Genung. Genung is far too sensible a man to cause my arrest on some trumped-up charge with no proof that I committed the deed.”
“Aint there no proof, Robert Bruce?” and Tim Watson stepped before him.
Mills’s blood receded from the surface, leaving his countenance a ghastly green. Dumb with fear, balked at every turn, realizing that his last card in this desperate game had been played, he fell on his knees and begged for mercy.
Not a man present thought him worth a decent kick and all shrank away from him in abhorrence.