While talking, Mr. Ruger had about evenly divided his glances between the very beautiful face of Fanny Borlan and the somewhat expressive countenances of the Ten Milers. Not that he found anything to admire in their damaged physiognomies, but he never wholly ignored the presence of any one.
"Good-morning, gentlemen," he said, as he rode up in front of them.
"Not to you, Tom Ruger," spoke a tall Ten Miler—the only one, by-the-way, who had come out of the previous day's trial unscathed. "Not to you, Tom Ruger! Where's Borlan?"
"He's gone down the coast on business," said Ruger, "and may not be back for several months."
"We'll not wait for him" was the miner's reply.
At the same time he drew a revolver.
"You had better wait," said Ruger, also producing a revolver.
The Ten Miler paused, and looked around at his companions. They did not present a formidable array of fighting stock. In fact, they were the sorest-looking men that Ten Mile Gulch ever saw; and as the unscathed surveyed them, he seemed to think he had better wait.
