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Now, while he succeeded, it was in quite an unexpected manner; for before he had formulated any plan Thomasville came to him with a proposition that drove all thoughts of women from his mind and sent them both out to the mines shortly after dark, each provided with a six-shooter and a bandana handkerchief with eyeholes cut in it.

Jane had returned to her cabin the following morning, and was preparing for bed, when she heard a faltering footstep outside. She glanced down at her money-sack filled with the night’s receipts of her hotel, then at the fastenings of her door. She knew that law was but a pretense and order a mockery in the camp, but the next instant she slid back the bolt and let in a flood of morning sunlight.

There, leaning against her wall, was a tall, dark young man whose head was hanging loosely and rolling from side to side. His hair beneath the gray Stetson was wet, his boots were sodden and muddy, one arm was thrust limply into the front of his coat as if paralyzed. She saw that the sleeve was caked with blood. Even as she spoke he sagged forward and slid down at her feet.

She was not the sort to run for help, and so, taking him under the armpits, she had him on her bed and his sleeve cut away before he opened his eyes. It was but an instant’s work to heat a basin of water; then she fell to bathing the wound. When she drew forth the shreds of cloth that had been taken into the flesh by the bullet, the man’s face grew ghastly and she heard his teeth grind, but he made no other sound.

“That hurt, didn’t it?” she smiled at him, and he tried to smile back. “How did it happen?” she queried.

“Accident.”

“You have come a long way?”

He nodded.

“Why didn’t you ask for help?”

“It–wasn’t worth while.”

She looked at him wonderingly, admiring his gameness; then was surprised to hear him say:

“So you’re June!”

“Yes.”

He closed his eyes and lay still while she poured some brandy for him; then he said:

“Please don’t bother. I must be going.”

“Not till you’ve eaten something.” She laid a soft, cool palm upon his forehead when he endeavored to rise, and he dropped back again, watching her curiously.

He had barely finished eating when another footstep sounded outside and a heavy knock followed.

“Hey, June!” called a voice. “Are you up?”

It was Jim Devlin, the marshal, and the girl rose, only to stop at the look she saw in the wounded man’s face. His dark eyes had widened; desperation haunted them.

“What is it, Mr. Devlin?” she answered.

“Have you seen anything of a wounded man within the last half-hour?”

She flashed another glance at her guest, to find him staring at her defiantly, but there was no appeal in his face. “What in the world do you mean?”

“There was a hold-up at Anvil Creek, and some shooting. We’re pretty sure one of the gang was hit, but he got away. Pete, the waterman, says he saw a sick-looking fellow crossing the tundra in this direction. I thought you might have noticed him.”

Again June’s eyes flew back to the pale face of the stranger. He had risen now and, seeing the frank inquiry in her gaze, he shrugged his shoulders and turned his good hand palm upward as if in surrender, whereupon she answered the marshal:

“I’m sorry you can’t come in, Mr. Devlin; but I’m just going to bed.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I’ll take a look through your bunk-house. Sorry to disturb you.”

When the footsteps had died away the stranger moistened his lips and asked, “Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know. You are brave, and brave men aren’t bad. Besides, I couldn’t bear to send any person out of God’s sunshine into the dark. You see, I don’t believe in prisons.”

When Llewellyn told the other Wag-boys of June’s part in his escape his story was met with exclamations that would have pleased her to hear, but the Scrap Iron Kid broke in to say, menacingly: