swing on ze rope?"

She waited. There was absolute silence save for the crackle of the
flaming pine-pitch torches.

"Ver' well,' 'in a low voice. "I, me, Mignon, shall answer." Again she
paused. A long way down the canyon she heard horses galloping on the
hard road. "Monsieur Pete!" she screamed, at the top of her voice.

The mob struggled forward, yelling.

"Ver' well!" she cried, snatching a silver-mounted pistol out of her
bosom. "Come on! Ze jackass, he is ke-e-ll five! I, Mignon, I ke-e-ll
five! Ten shall go to le diable before mon brave shall hang!"

They hesitated, those in front pressing back from the certain death
which awaited them. Mignon set her arms akimbo, the gun gleaming at her
hip, and taunted them in contemptuous French.

The horsemen had reached the camp and soon thundered into view. "What's
this going on, anyway?" demanded the sheriff, angrily. "Anthony Barstow
is innocent. These men can prove that they spent the night at Barstow's
cabin. When I learned the truth, I came straight back. Buckeye Pete, you
throw up your hands! You're wanted for the murder of Spotty Collins."

Mignon tore the noose from Anthony's neck, laughing and crying in true
French abandon.

"Anthony, you're snared in another kind of noose," laughed the sheriff.
"I know you're need in' your arms, but that rip-snortin' little jack