A quiet, confident-looking gentleman, Dr. Adams, is already by her side, stopping the flow of blood, and under his directions she is conveyed to her dressing-tent, the miner, tall, athletic, and with immense, sunburned beard, following anxiously in the rear.
The performance has been renewed and the crowd are forgetting the accident, when the miner appears in the ring dragging after him a performer, Monsieur La Forge, as he is called, "the strongest man in the world," who resists with all his might the iron muscles that are clinched like a vice on his collar.
A trapeze act is being performed, but all eyes are on the miner and his victim, not one of the performers having interfered, as they all dislike and fear La Forge for his bullying, bragadocio character.
"Leddies and gintlemin, this yere coyote am ther cause on that yere young gal er falling. I knows 'em both. He wanted ter kill her. Yes, yer did, ye skunk! He stole her when she war a chile from my sister. I knowed him; I knowed her. He hearn I was coming ter-day and he sed that he'd kill her. Lay down, yer he-bar! Lay down, I say.
"I was standing close on ter this ring when I seed him fire sumthing at her. She turned her putty eyes to see what it wur and over she went. Mister performers, ye'll 'scuse me fur interruptin' yer performances, but I thought I'd let these yere know who this skunk is. Now, then, Meester Ler Forgey, alias John Rafferty, what have yer got to say to my statement?"
"Hang him! Hang him! Strangle him!" broke in the crowd as they left their seats and rushed for the ring.
"Back! Back! Yer shan't hang him! Do yer hear? Ther fust man that raises a finger to throttle him, I'll pile in that yere saw dust! Do yer hear?"
His revolver levelled at the angry, grumbling crowd held them back. They all knew him. All knew old Ned Struthers, the most daring and best shot on the frontier; a man whom the redskins feared more than a whole army of trained United States soldiers; a remnant of a race of men who could settle the Indian question quicker, better, and with less expense than a whole army of Indian whiskey-selling agents; a man who they knew was dangerous and vindictive when aroused. So all kept their distance.
"Now, thin, yer goll-darned skunk, git up off yer knees! Git!"
"The doctor says Miss Florenstein is dying!" the ring master, pale and breathless, announced as he ran into the ring.