She huddled against Jim there in the shadow of the cabin wall, and not for long did either speak. They watched and listened. The streams of miners turned back toward the space around the scaffold where the vigilantes stood grouped, and there rose a subdued roar of excited voices. Many small groups of men conversed together, until the vigilante leader brought all to attention by addressing the populace in general. Joan could not hear what he said and had no wish to hear.
“Joan, it all happened so quickly, didn't it?” whispered Jim, shaking his head as if he was not convinced of reality.
“Wasn't he—terrible!” whispered Joan in reply.
“He! Who?”
“Kells.” In her mind the bandit leader dominated all that wild scene.
“Terrible, if you like. But I'd say great!... The nerve of him! In the face of a hundred vigilantes and thousands of miners! But he knew what that shot would do!”
“Never! He never thought of that,” declared Joan, earnestly. “I felt him tremble. I had a glimpse of his face.... Oh!... First in his mind was his downfall, and, second, the treachery of Frenchy. I think that shot showed Kells as utterly desperate, but weak. He couldn't have helped it—if that had been the last bullet in his gun.”
Jim Cleve looked strangely at Joan, as if her eloquence was both persuasive and incomprehensible.
“Well, that was a lucky shot for us—and him, too.”
“Do you think he got away?” she asked, eagerly.