The crowd pressed close to those who had come up from the fire. A woman gave a sob of joy and fell into the arms of a grimy Cousin Jack. Another caught a glimpse of her husband’s face and fainted.
In the excitement two men pushed through the crowd toward a pile of lumber. The one in front moved with sullen reluctance. Only the pressure against his back kept him going. Nobody noticed that he was handcuffed.
From underneath the lumber pile the second man drew a sawed-off shotgun.
“We’ll be movin’ down to town,” he told his captive.
Dutch shouted one word, “Dodson.”
The mine owner swung round, and at the first glance understood the situation. He turned pale and stepped behind Carstairs. Not for a moment did he doubt that McClintock had come to kill Dutch. Would he make a clean sweep of it and shoot him, too? Convicted of guilt, he crouched behind his superintendent shaking like an aspen.
“Don’t let him kill me,” he begged.
Hugh spoke, his voice cold and hard. “I’m not on the shoot to-day, Dodson—unless you force my hand, you black-hearted murderer. I’m here to take Dutch back to Carson with me. The yellow wolf shot my brother in the back.”
“No such thing. I got him in a fair fight,” blustered Dutch. “An’ I ain’t goin’ to Carson with you, either.”
“You’re going, dead or alive.” McClintock’s face and voice were as inexorable as the day of judgment.