There were twelve of them; fierce, savage, half-drunken men. They cared for no one, they feared no one. They were ready to follow whithersoever their passions led them. There was not a man among them that would not fight with the last breath in his body. Yet they hesitated at the sound of that voice. They almost shrank before that passion-lit face. The man's enormous stature was not without awe for them. And in that moment of hesitation the battle was won for Dave. Chepstow's repeating-rifle was at his shoulder, and Mason's revolver had been whipped out of its holster and was held covering them.
Suddenly there was a movement in the crowd, somewhere behind. If Dave saw it he gave no sign. But Mason saw it, and, sharply incisive, his voice rang out—
"The first man that moves this way I'll shoot him like a dog!"
Instantly every eye among the strikers was turned upon the two men with their ready weapons, and to a man they understood that the game was up.
"Get out! Get out—quick!" Dave's great voice split the air with another deep roar. And the retreat began on the instant with those in the rear. Some one started to run, and in a moment the rest had joined in a rush for the camp, vanishing into the forest like a pack of timber wolves, flinging back fierce, vengeful glances over their shoulders at those who had so easily routed them.
No one stirred till the last man had disappeared. Then Dave turned.
"Quick!" he cried, in an utterly changed voice, "get into the buckboard!"
But Betty turned to him in a half-hysterical condition.
"Oh, Dave, Dave!" she cried helplessly.
But Dave was just now a man whom none of them had ever seen before. He had words for no one—not even for Betty. He suddenly caught her in his arms and lifted her bodily into the buckboard. He scrambled in after her, while Chepstow jumped up behind. In a moment, it seemed, they were racing headlong for the camp.