the outskirts of the fire, his heart was gladdened by the sight of
the half-breed--with his hanging haversack belt and tattered army
tunic--evidently still a fugitive, not a hundred yards away on the other
side of the belt of fire, running down the hill with another ragged
figure at his side. The command to "halt" was enforced by a single rifle
shot over the fugitives' heads--but they still kept on their flight.
Then the boy-officer snatched a carbine from one of his men, a volley
rang out from the little troop--the shots of the privates mercifully
high, those of the officer and sergeant leveled with wounded pride and
full of deliberate purpose. The half-breed fell; so did his companion,
and, rolling over together, both lay still.

But between the hunters and their fallen quarry reared a cheval de
frise of flame and fallen timber impossible to cross. The young officer
hesitated, shrugged his shoulders, wheeled his men about, and left the
fire to correct any irregularity in his action.

It did not, however, change contemporaneous history, for a week later,
when Wynyard's Bar discovered Major Overstone lying beside the man now
recognized by them as the disguised sheriff of Siskyou, they rejoiced at
this unfailing evidence of their lost leader's unequaled prowess. That
he had again killed a sheriff and fought a whole posse, yielding only
with his life, was never once doubted, and kept his memory green in
Sierran chronicles long after Wynyard's Bar had itself become a memory.




A ROSE OF GLENBOGIE.