Colonel Briggs was nonplussed for the moment. He had failed to scare the men whom he meant to despoil of their property and some of the mutterings behind him showed that he lacked the unanimous support of his followers.

"Boys," he said, looking round in their faces; "you've heerd what these strangers say to my mild requests. Since they are too mean to trade, I leave it to you to say whether we shall let up on 'em or make 'em trade; which is it?"

"Trade! trade!" was the response, given with such ardency that there seemed to be no dissent, though there was.

"That hits me right; trade it shall be; the first one of the strangers that kicks, fill him full of holes."

"And the first man that lays a finger on my property," said Captain Dawson, in the same deliberate voice, "will be shot down like a dog!"

The person whom Parson Brush had selected a few minutes before for his first target and whom he was watching closely, now did an extraordinary thing. This individual was thin to emaciation. His beard was scant and scraggly, and his large black eyes gleamed like those of a wild animal. He had a very long body, and sat so upright in his saddle, with his Winchester resting across in front, that he towered head and shoulders above his companions. From the first, he fixed his penetrating eyes on Captain Dawson and studied him closely. It was this persistent intensity of gaze that attracted the notice of Brush, who set him down as being even more malignant than the leader of the disreputable party.

When a collision was impending, and must have come the next second, the singular looking man, grasping his revolver, raised his hand above his head and called:

"Hold on a minute!"

His commanding voice and manner hushed every one. From his place at the rear, he spurred his mule straight toward the three men standing on the ground.

"Keep off!" commanded the parson; "if you come any nearer I'll shoot!"

The extraordinary looking individual gave him no heed, but forced his mule in front of Captain Dawson, upon whom he kept his eyes riveted.

"Don't fire till I give the word," commanded the captain, who had become suddenly interested in the tall, slim man.

Halting his mule directly before Dawson, and with no more than a couple of yards separating them, the stranger craned his head forward until his chin was almost between the long ears of his animal. He seemed to be trying to look the officer through, while every other man watched the curious proceeding.

Suddenly the fellow resumed his upright posture in the saddle, his manner showing that he had solved the problem that perplexed him.

Through his thin, scattered beard, he was seen to be smiling.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Maurice Dawson."

"Formerly captain of the Iowa ---- cavalry?"

"The same at your service."

"Don't you know me, captain?"

The officer thus appealed to took a single step forward, and looked searchingly in the face of the man that had thus addressed him.

"There is something familiar in your looks and voice, but I am unable to place you."

"Did you ever hear of Corporal Bob Parker of the ---- Missouri?"

"Yes; you are he! I recognize you now! I am glad to greet you."

And shoving his Winchester under the stump of his arm, Captain Dawson extended his hand to his old comrade and shook it warmly, the two seeming to forget the presence of every one else.

"Something in your face struck me," said the corporal, "but I wasn't sure. The last time I saw you, you had both arms."

"Yes; I got rid of this one at the very close of the war."

"Things were pretty well mixed up around Petersburg; I tried to get on your track, but failed; I knew you meant to come to California, and when we drifted here, I was hopeful of finding you, but I didn't think it would be in this style."

While speaking the corporal had retained the hand of the captain, shaking it occasionally as he spoke. He now gave it a final pressure and dropped it.

"Captain, you and I went through some pretty tough scrimmages and you were always dead true and game; when we lost our colonel and major, you took command and led the charge that day at Cold Harbor; Grant or Sheridan couldn't have done better."

"It _was_ rather warm," smiled the captain, blushing at the compliment; "but, corporal, it looks as if we are going to have something of the kind here."

Corporal Parker deliberately turned to the wondering group behind him.

"Jim and Tom, you know what we agreed on, if this should prove to be my old commander. You two wore the gray, but you are true blue now."

At this reminder, two of the company without a word rode forward and placed themselves beside the corporal.

"Now, we'll face the other way."

His suggestion was followed. The three wheeled their animals around, so that their riders, like the footmen, were in a line confronting Colonel Briggs and his astonished company.

"Dress," said the corporal, looking down and moving his mule about until the alignment would have drawn a compliment from a West Point cadet.

"Now, boys, are your shooting irons ready?"

"They gin'rally air," was the significant response of one of the men.

"All right, colonel," added the corporal making a military salute; "everything being in readiness please let the skirmish proceed."

Colonel Briggs emitted a forceful exclamation.

"What's the meaning of all this? I don't understand it."

"There are six on each side; that evens matters; shall you start the music or do you prefer to have the captain fire the opening gun?"

"But you haven't told me what this means."

"It means that Captain Dawson and Corporal Bob Parker have drunk from the same canteen."

It must be conceded that Colonel Briggs had one merit; no one was quicker than he to grasp a situation. So long as there were nine men on one side and three on the other, the success of the former was promising. He meant to crowd the defiant miners to the wall and would have done so but for the unprecedented turn of affairs. Now it was six to six and he knew the mettle of the three recruits that had joined the miners. Bob Parker was the most terrific fighter in the whole company. He was one of those men, occasionally seen, who was absolutely without fear. He would have stood up alone and fought the other eight. During that single week in Sacramento, he gained the name of a terror and caused a sigh of relief on the part of the authorities when he left for the mountains.

The corporal always fired to kill, and his skill with rifle and pistol was marvelous. While talking with Colonel Briggs, he fixed his brilliant black eyes on him, as if to intimate that he had selected _him_ for his pet antagonist. All this was disconcerting.

In this crisis, when every nerve was drawn tense and the question of life and death hung on the pa.s.sing of a breath, Colonel Briggs leaned backward and elevating his chin in the way that had become familiar, emitted one of his resounding laughs. Then he abruptly snapped his jaws together like the springing of a trap.

"Why, Bob, this puts a different face on things," he said cheerily; "if the man's a friend of yours, of course we can't quarrel with him."

"I rather think not," replied the corporal.