The vigilante leader shook the noose in his face and pointed to the
swaying forms of the dead bandits.
Frenchy frothed at the mouth as he shrieked out words in his native
tongue, but any miner there could have translated their meaning.
The crowd heaved forward, as if with one step, then stood in a
strained silence.
"Talk English!" ordered the vigilante.
"I'll tell! I'll tell!"
Joan became aware of a singular tremor in Kells's arm, which she
still clasped. Suddenly it jerked. She caught a gleam of blue. Then
the bellow of a gun almost split her ears. Powder burned her cheek.
She saw Frenchy double up and collapse on the platform.
For an instant there was a silence in which every man seemed
petrified. Then burst forth a hoarse uproar and the stamp of many
boots. All in another instant pandemonium broke out. The huge crowd
split in every direction. Joan felt Cleve's strong arm around her--
felt herself borne on a resistless tide of yelling, stamping,
wrestling men. She had a glimpse of Kells's dark face drawing away
from her; another of Gulden's giant form in Herculean action,
tossing men aside like ninepins; another of weapons aloft. Savage,
wild-eyed men fought to get into the circle whence that shot had
come. They broke into it, but did not know then whom to attack or
what to do. And the rushing of the frenzied miners all around soon
disintegrated Kells's band and bore its several groups in every
direction. There was not another shot fired.
Joan was dragged and crushed in the melee. Not for rods did her feet
touch the ground. But in the clouds of dust and confusion of
struggling forms she knew Jim still held her, and she clasped him
with all her strength. Presently her feet touched the earth; she was
not jostled and pressed; then she felt free to walk; and with Jim
urging her they climbed a rock-strewn slope till a cabin impeded
further progress. But they had escaped the stream.
Below was a strange sight. A scaffold shrouded in dust-clouds; a
band of bewildered vigilantes with weapons drawn, waiting for they
knew not what; three swinging, ghastly forms and a dead man on the
platform; and all below, a horde of men trying to escape from one
another. That shot of Kells's had precipitated a rush. No miner knew
who the vigilantes were nor the members of the Border Legion. Every
man there expected a bloody battle--distrusted the man next to him--
and had given way to panic. The vigilantes had tried to crowd
together for defense and all the others had tried to escape. It was
a wild scene, born of wild justice and blood at fever-heat, the
climax of a disordered time where gold and violence reigned supreme.
It could only happen once, but it was terrible while it lasted. It
showed the craven in men; it proved the baneful influence of gold;
it brought, in its fruition, the destiny of Alder Creek Camp. For it
must have been that the really brave and honest men in vast majority
retraced their steps while the vicious kept running. So it seemed to
Joan.