It was a well-contrived trap—boards covered with earth—a surface supported by props which had been pulled away by ropes. More than half the Flagg men tumbled into deep and muddy water and threshed helplessly in a struggling mass until the others laid down their weapons and pulled the drowning men out.
The attacking army retired for repairs and grouped on the solid shore. Except for the roar of the sluiceway and the gasping of the men who were getting breath there was something like calm after the uproar of the battle.
Out of the fog sounded the voice of Director Craig.
“We have given you your chance to show how you respect the law. What you have done after a legal warning is chalked up against you. Now that you have proclaimed yourselves as outlaws I have something of my own to proclaim to you. I am up here——”
A stentorian voice slashed in sharply, and Craig’s speech was cut off.
The voice came from one who was veiled in the fog, but they all knew it for Ward Latisan’s. “Yes, Craig, you’re here—here about five hours ahead of me because you had the cash to hire a special train. However, I know the short cuts for a man on horseback. I’m here, too!”
His men got a dim view of him in the mists; he loomed like a statue of heroic size on the horse. Then he flung himself off and came running down the shore.
He went straight to Lida and faced her manfully; but his eyes were humbly beseeching and his features worked with contrite apology. “I know now who you are, Miss Kennard. I don’t mean to presume, in the case of either you or your men. But will you allow me to speak to them?”
“Yes,” she assented, trying to hold her poise, helped by his manner.
He turned quickly from her eyes as if her gaze tortured him.