He hid his rifle in a hollow tree, and when he reached the little mining camp he had cunningly concealed all evidence of agitation or guilt.
The knowledge of the act was not destined to remain locked in his own breast, however, as he was soon to learn. At his destination, the Condor Mine, he found Charlie Floyd, the mine’s physician, waiting for him, and wearing a very stern expression.
“I have something important to say to you, Mr. Stone,” the young doctor said grimly, and led the way to a spot where they were out of earshot.
“What’s up?” demanded Stone, who was one of the two original owners of the mine. He and his partner, Winthrop Crawford, had only recently sold out for a cool million.
“Much,” was the grave answer. “I happened to be roaming about in the foothills back there a little while ago, and I saw you take that pot shot at Mr. Crawford.”
“What are you raving about?” growled Stone, with the greatest apparent surprise.
“I’m not raving at all, Mr. Stone. I always carry field glasses on my walks, as you know, and, being startled by the shot, I looked in that direction, saw the puff of smoke from behind the rock, and leveled my glasses on the spot. I saw you when you looked down to see if the bullet had done its work; saw you as plainly as if you had been not more than ten feet away. There’s no possibility of a mistake. I was in a position to watch your movements afterward, and saw you sneaking away. I recognized your hat, too.”
Stone had wilted at first when the field glasses were mentioned, but now he seemed to have plucked up fresh courage, and even assumed a defiant attitude.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” he demanded. “One or the other of us will have to kick the bucket sooner or later. Crawford has it in for me, and I only acted in self-defense. If I don’t get him first, he’ll get me as sure as fate.”
The young physician looked at him searchingly, but there was much more of pity than condemnation in his glance.