the ethics of society, promptly turned her over to Jim Westcott, who
had come down to inquire if the station-agent held a telegram for
him--a telegram that he expected from the East.

"She oughtn't to hike to the Timmons House alone, Jim," Carson said.
"This yere is pay-day up at the big mines, an' the boys are havin' a
hell of a time. That's them yellin' down yonder, and they're mighty
likely to mix up with the Bar X gang before mornin', bein' how the
liquor is runnin' like blood in the streets o' Lundun, and there's half
a mile between 'em."

In view of these disclosures, Miss Donovan welcomed the courteous
acquiescence of Westcott, whom she judged to be a man of thirty-one,
with force and character--these written in the lines of his big body
and his square, kind face.

"I'm Miss Stella Donovan of New York," she said directly.

"And I," he returned, with hat off in the deepening gloom, "am Jim
Westcott, who plugs away at a mining claim over yonder."

"There!" laughed the girl frankly. "We're introduced. And I suppose
we can start for the Timmons House."

As her words trailed off there came again the sound of yelling, sharp
cries, and revolver shots from the gulch below where lights twinkled
faintly.

Laughing warmly, Westcott picked up her valise, threw a "So-long" to
Carson, and with Miss Donovan close behind him, began making for the