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The latter exclamation was uttered when the stranger's eyes fell on Bradling, who was gazing at him with the expression of a man who had seen a ghost. At the same time the stranger threw forward his rifle, and his countenance became unusually pale. For two seconds each looked at the other in profound silence, which was only broken by the sharp click of the lock as the stranger cocked his piece.

"Poor wretch!" exclaimed Frank, as the man advanced slowly with timid steps, while his large sunken eyes absolutely glared at the broken meat which lay scattered about. "Give him von morsel," suggested Meyer. "Give him a bullet in his dirty carcase," growled Bradling. The Indian stopped when within ten paces of the fire and grinned horribly.

Still, there were some present who would have run the risk, and it is certain that our hero and his friend would have then and there terminated their career, had not a backwoods hunter stepped forward and said: "Well now, ye air makin' a pretty noise 'bout nothin'! See here, I know that feller Bradling well. He didn't kill the man.

Even Bradling gave up his brandy, and was content to refresh himself with the little of the pure element which chanced to remain in his formerly despised, but now cherished, water-bottle.

One man in his desperation attempted to lick the bodies of the mules, hoping to obtain relief from the exudations of their skins, but the dust on them rendered this unavailing. Suddenly Bradling darted at the water-skin hanging by the side of the guide's mule, and swore he would have it or die. "You'll die, then," observed the guide quietly, cocking a pistol and presenting it at his head.

Instantly Bradling bounded away like a hunted deer, overturning several men in his flight, and being followed by a perfect storm of bullets from rifles and revolvers, until he had disappeared in the neighbouring wood. Then the miners turned with fury on Frank, but paused abruptly on seeing that he and Joe Graddy stood back to back, with a revolver in each hand.

Bradling hesitated and looked at the man. There was a cold stony stare, without the least excitement, in his look, which convinced him that his attempt, if continued, would end in certain death. He fell back at once with a deep groan. Onward they pressed, hour after hour, until, in many of them, exhausted nature began to give way.

At that time the man Bradling, who had become nearly mad with drinking brandy, ran in succession to each of those who had water, and offered all that he possessed of the former for one mouthful of the latter. His flushed face, glassy eyes, and haggard air, told how terrible was his extremity; but although some might have felt a touch of commiseration not one was moved to relieve him.

When he felt sure that he was dying, Bradling asked me to call together a few of the honest and trustworthy men in the diggings. I did so, and he told us the amount of his gatherings, and, after explaining how you had helped him in his hour of need, said that he took us all solemnly to witness that he left you his heir.

See here," he added, leading them to another grave not far distant from that of Meyer; "can you guess who lies under the sod there? He was a friend of yours; though perhaps you would scarcely have acknowledged him had he been alive. You remember Bradling " "What! our old travelling companion!" exclaimed Frank. "The same." "Why, I saved his life only a few days ago."