ball passed harmlessly over the heads of the party.

For a few seconds the travellers stood as if paralysed, and Bradling himself remained motionless, gazing sullenly on his victim. Then Frank Allfrey leaped upon him, and grasping him by the throat wrenched the pistol out of his hand.

“Murderer!” he exclaimed, tightening his hold, as Bradling struggled to release himself.

“I’m no murderer,” gasped Bradling; “you saw as well as I did that the fellow threatened to shoot me. Besides, he is not dead.”

“That’s true,” said Joe Graddy, turning towards the fallen man, whom Rance and some of the others were examining, and who had showed some symptoms of returning consciousness; “but his wound is a bad one, and if you ain’t a murderer yet, pr’aps it won’t be long afore ye are one.”

Hearing this Frank flung Bradling violently off, and turned to examine the wounded man. As he did so the other pointed his pistol deliberately at Frank’s back, fired, and then sprang into the woods. Before he had quite disappeared, however, each man who could seize his gun or pistol in time fired a shot after him, but apparently without effect, for although they examined the bushes carefully afterwards no marks of blood could be found.

Fortunately the miscreant missed Frank, yet so narrowly that the ball had touched his hair as it whistled past his ear.

The wounded man was as carefully tended as was possible in the circumstances, but neither on that night nor the following day did he recover sufficiently to be able to give any account of himself. He was left at the first “ranch” they came to next day, with directions from Frank that he should be cared for and sent back to Sacramento city as soon as possible. Our hero was unable of course to pay his expenses, but he and all the party contributed a small sum, which, with the gold found on the stranger’s person, was sufficient to satisfy the ranchero, who appeared to be a more amiable man than the rest of his class. To secure as far as possible the faithful performance of his duty, Frank earnestly assured him that if he was attentive to the man he would give him something additional on his return from the diggings.

“That’s very good of you, sir,” said the ranchero with a peculiar smile, “but I wouldn’t promise too much if I were you. Mayhap you won’t be able to fulfil it. All gold-diggers don’t make fortunes.”

“Perhaps not,” said Frank; “but few of them, I believe, fail to make enough to pay off their debts.”

“H’m, except those who die,” said the ranchero.

“Well, but I am not going to die,” said Frank with a smile.

“I hope not. All the young and strong ones seem to think as you do when they go up; but I have lived here, off an’ on, since the first rush and all I can say is that I have seen a lot more men go up to the diggin’s than ever I saw come down from ’em; and, of those who did return, more were poor than rich, while very few of ’em looked either as stout or as cheerful as they did when passing up.”

“Come, shut up your potato-trap, old man, and don’t try to take the heart out of us all in that fashion,” said Jeffson; “but let’s have a feed of the best you have in the house, for we’re all alive and kicking as yet, anyhow, and not too poor to pay our way; and, I say, let’s have some home-brewed beer if you can, because we’ve got a German with us, and a haggis also for our Scotchman.”

“You have forgotten roast-beef for the Englishman,” said Frank, laughing.

“I daresay you won’t want sauce,” observed the host with an air of simplicity; “my meat never seems to want it when there’s a Yankee in the room.”

Saying this the worthy ranchero went to work, and speedily supplied the travellers with a meal consisting of hard biscuit and rancid pork, with a glass of bitter brandy to wash it down; for which he charged them the sum of eight shillings a head.