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It was not until he
came back to the open door that the miner thought of his companion.
What had become of Jose? Could it be that the Mexican was hit? He
entered, shrinking from the task, yet resolute to learn the truth; felt
his way along the wall as far as the fireplace, and stirred the embers
into flame. They leaped up, casting a flickering glow over the
interior. A black, shapeless figure, scarcely discernible as a man,
lay huddled beneath the table. Westcott bent over it, feeling for the
heart and turning the face upward. There was no visible mark of the
bullet wound, but the body was limp, the face ghastly in the grotesque
dance of the flames. The assassin had not wasted his shot--Jose
Salvari would never see Mexico again.


CHAPTER XIV: LACY LEARNS THE TRUTH
Westcott straightened the body out, crossing the dead hands, and
covered the face with a blanket stripped from a bunk. The brief burst
of flame died down, leaving the room in semi-darkness. The miner was
conscious only of a feeling of dull rage, a desire for revenge.


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