Helen forced her brother back to his couch, and returned to help the wounded man, who grew incoherent and began to babble.

A little later, when the Kid seemed stronger and his head clearer, Helen ventured to tell him of their uncle’s villany and of the proof she held, with her hope of restoring justice.  She told him of the attack planned that very night and of the danger which threatened the miners.  He questioned her closely and, realizing the bearing of her story, crept to the door, casting the wind like a hound.

“We’ll have to risk it,” said he.  “The wind is almost gone and it’s not long till daylight.”

She pleaded to go alone, but he was firm.  “I’ll never leave you again, and, moreover, I know the lower trail quite well.  We’ll go down the gulch to the valley and reach town that way.  It’s farther but it’s not so dangerous.”

“You can’t ride,” she insisted.

“I can if you’ll tie me into the saddle.  Come, get the horses.”

It was still pitchy dark and the rain was pouring, but the wind only sighed weakly as though tired by its violence when she helped the Bronco into his saddle.  The effort wrenched a groan from him, but he insisted upon her tying his feet beneath the horse’s belly, saying that the trail was rough and he could take no chance of falling again; so, having performed the last services she might for Struve, she mounted her own animal and allowed it to pick its way down the steep descent behind her brother, who swayed and lurched drunkenly in his seat, gripping the horn before him with both hands.

They had been gone perhaps a half-hour when another horse plunged furiously out of the darkness and halted before the road-house door.  Its rider, mud-stained and dishevelled, flung himself in mad haste to the ground and bolted in through the door.  He saw the signs of confusion in the outer room, chairs upset and broken, the table wedged against the stove, and before the counter a shattered lamp in a pool of oil.  He called loudly, but, receiving no answer, snatched a light which, he found burning and ran to the door at his left.  Nothing greeted him but the empty tiers of bunks.  Turning, he crossed to the other side and burst through.  Another lamp was lighted beside the couch where Struve lay, breathing heavily, his lids half closed over his staring eyes.  Roy noted the pool of blood at his feet and the broken window; then, setting down his lamp, he leaned over the man and spoke to him.

When he received no answer he spoke again loudly.  Then, in a frenzy, Glenister shook the wounded man cruelly, so that he cried out in terror: 

“I’m dying—­oh, I’m dying.”  Roy raised the sick man up and thrust his own face before his eyes.

“This is Glenister.  I’ve come for Helen—­where is she?” A spark of recognition flickered into the dull stare.

“You’re too late—­I’m dying—­and I’m afraid.”

His questioner shook Struve again.  “Where is she?” he repeated, time after time, till by very force of his own insistence he compelled realization in the sufferer.