Alice Deringham was pale and very quiet, though there was an intentness in her eyes, and when Horton stopped close by her she looked at him.

“They have heard nothing yet?” she said.

“No,” said the storekeeper.  “Still, some of them should have been here by now.”

The little nervous tremor in his voice did not escape the girl, and though it had all been explained to her before, she said, “Then you expect more than Mr. Alton?”

“Well,” said Horton, who seemed glad to find an outlet in speech, “I don’t quite know.  You see there was a man brought a wire in before Harry got through, and once the claim was posted vacant anybody could stake it.  There’s a holy crowd of jumpers hanging round the mine, and because there’d be such a circus nobody could be sure who’d got his pegs in first, the Crown people would probably listen to the man who got through and recorded.  Oh, yes, they’ll be pounding down the trail as if the devil was after them now, but there’s none of them got the relays of horses we’ve fixed up for Harry.”

Horton moved away, and the girl sat still listening, while Mrs. Forel stirred nervously, and her husband apparently found it necessary to light his cigar again every now and then.  The voices had died away, and there was no sound but the faint song of water and the patter of restless feet.  How long the silence continued Alice Deringham did not know, but a quiver went through her as a hoarse shout rose up, “They’re coming!”

Then there was silence again, and she watched a bronzed man rubbing down a great black horse whose blood had not come from a Cayuse pedigree until a faint drumming grew louder down the trail.  It swelled into a sharp staccato, and the murmurs commenced again.  “Two of them.  Another man behind.  Riding like brimstone.  Can you see them yet?”

The drumming sound sank, and rose again in a confused roar as the horsemen crossed a wooden bridge while Alice Deringham stood up, when once more the voices rose stridently.

“One of the jumpers first.  Harry’s coming along behind.  Cayuse played out.  Lord, how they’re riding!”

Then lips were set tight, and steady eyes blazed, as a man grimed with sweat and dust who reeled in his saddle swept out from the forest on a jaded horse.  Most of those who watched him had a heavy stake in that race, for it was with Alton’s prosperity they must stand or fall; but the bushman’s code of honour is as high as it is simple, and they sprang aside to give the rider a free passage.  The man blinked at them in a curious dazed fashion, as he rode on, the dust whirling behind him and the lather dripping tinged with red from the horse’s whitened sides.

Still, the drumming behind grew louder, and he had scarcely sunk into the shadows when Alton, stripped to shirt and trousers, rode in.  He, too, swayed in the saddle, and his face was foul with dust, but it was firmly set, and there was a glint in his eyes, while as he swept out of the shadow of the pines two men led the horse out into the trail.  He reined his beast in upon its haunches, swung himself down, thrust aside the pitcher somebody tendered him, and with a swing that rent the white shirt was once more in the saddle.  Then there was a scattering of the crowd and a shouting broke out.