Her face flushed, but she answered bravely. “Do you remember two years ago, you came to my father for help? One of your people was in jail—someone had been hurt, killed, perhaps. An Italian named De Angelo. And my father went to court with you to tell that Gerani, I think that was his name, was not present when the Italian was hurt. I was at home when you came.”
The man nodded. There was no question now in his mind. She was Dennis O’Day’s daughter, the daughter of the man, who, although himself not a miner, stood shoulder to shoulder with them when they needed a friend. She saw him hesitate.
“If you are afraid to allow us to pass, fire your gun, and let the miners know we’re coming. I am not afraid of them. They will befriend me.”
He stepped aside. At that instant Jefferies brought down his whip upon the backs of the horses, and they started forward.
“We’re rid of him,” exclaimed Nora. “I’m not afraid of anyone else. I’ll reach Bitumen and see my father before daylight.”
“And save mine,” said Elizabeth.
“Elizabeth Hobart, your father is perfectly safe. No doubt, he’s home warm and comfortable in bed, while we, poor mortals, are out in the night, drenched and forlorn.”
They had not gone up the mountain road more than a mile, when the sharp report of a gun was heard. There was a moment’s silence, followed by a second report.
“Ketchomunoski is sending word of our coming,” said Nora. “I begin to feel that I am of some importance. This is the first time my appearance has been heralded.” Then more seriously, “I would like to know what two shots mean. Why wasn’t one sufficient? Do you know, Jefferies?”
But Jefferies knew nothing. He would not even express an opinion on the subject. He had no time to give to mere surmises. His work was to keep the horses moving. This he did, encouraging them with chirrups, or touching them lightly with the whip.