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“Are you mad?” said the prisoner. “Do you think they won’t fire lest they should hurt you? Man! they’ll kill YOU, the first thing.”

“So be it–if your chance is better.”

Still on his knees, the man grasped Gideon’s two hands in his own and devoured him with his eyes.

“You mean it?”

“I do.”

“Then,” said the prisoner, quietly, “I reckon I’ll stop and hear what you’ve got to say about God until they’re ready.”

“You refuse to fly?”

“I reckon I was never better fitted to die than now,” said the prisoner, still grasping his hand. After a pause he added in a lower tone, “I can’t pray–but–I think,” he hesitated, “I think I could manage to ring in a hymn.”

“Will you try, brother?”

“Yes.”

With their hands tightly clasped together, Gideon lifted his gentle voice. The air was a common one, familiar in the local religious gatherings, and after the first verse one or two of the sullen lookers-on joined unkindly in the refrain. But, as he went on, the air and words seemed to offer a vague expression to the dull lowering animal emotion of the savage concourse, and at the end of the second verse the refrain, augmented in volume and swelled by every voice in the camp, swept out over the hollow plain.

It was met in the distance by a far-off cry. With an oath taking the place of his supplication, the leader sprang to his feet. But too late! The cry was repeated as a nearer slogan of defiance–the plain shook–there was the tempestuous onset of furious hoofs–a dozen shots–the scattering of the embers of the camp-fire into a thousand vanishing sparks even as the lurid gathering of savage humanity was dispersed and dissipated over the plain, and Gideon and the prisoner stood alone. But as the sheriff of Contra Costa with his rescuing posse swept by, the man they had come to save fell forward in Gideon’s arms with a bullet in his breast–the Parthian shot of the flying Vigilante leader.

The eager crowd that surged around him with outstretched helping hands would have hustled Gideon aside. But the wounded man roused himself, and throwing an arm around the young preacher’s neck, warned them back with the other. “Stand back!” he gasped. “He risked his life for mine! Look at him, boys! Wanted ter stand up ‘twixt them hounds and me and draw their fire on himself! Ain’t he just hell?” he stopped; an apologetic smile crossed his lips. “I clean forgot, pardner; but it’s all right. I said I was ready to go; and I am.” His arm slipped from Gideon’s neck; he slid to the ground; he had fainted.

A dark, military-looking man pushed his way through the crowd–the surgeon, one of the posse, accompanied by a younger man fastidiously dressed. The former bent over the unconscious prisoner, and tore open his shirt; the latter followed his movements with a flush of anxious inquiry in his handsome, careless face. After a moment’s pause the surgeon, without looking up, answered the young man’s mute questioning. “Better send the sheriff here at once, Jack.”

“He is here,” responded the official, joining the group.

The surgeon looked up at him. “I am afraid they’ve put the case out of your jurisdiction, Sheriff,” he said grimly. “It’s only a matter of a day or two at best–perhaps only a few hours. But he won’t live to be taken back to jail.”

“Will he live to go as far as Martinez?” asked the young man addressed as Jack.

“With care, perhaps.”

“Will you be responsible for him, Jack Hamlin?” said the sheriff, suddenly.

“I will.”

“Then take him. Stay, he’s coming to.”

The wounded man slowly opened his eyes. They fell upon Jack Hamlin with a pleased look of recognition, but almost instantly and anxiously glanced around as if seeking another. Leaning over him, Jack said gayly, “They’ve passed you over to me, old man; are you willing?”