g racks Morgan walked, away from
the thronged sidewalk, in the clear where all could see him and a shot
from some dark window would not imperil the life of another. Around and
around the square he tramped in the dusty, hoof-cut street, keeping his
own counsel, unspeaking and unspoken to, the living spirit of the mighty
law.

It was a high-handed piece of business, the bleached men and kalsomined
women declared, as they passed from the humor of contemplating Seth
Craddock's return to fretful chafing against the restraint of the
present hour. How did it come that one man could lord it over a whole
town of free and independent Americans that way? Why didn't somebody
take a shot at him? Why didn't they defy him, go and open the doors and
let this thirsty, money-padded throng up to the gambling tables and
bars?

They asked to be told what had become of the manhood of Ascalon, and
asked it with contempt. What was the fame of the town based upon but a
bluff when one man was able to shut it up as tight as a trunk, and strut
around that way adding the insult of his tyrannical presence to the act
of his oppressive hand. There were plenty of questions and suggestions,
but nobody went beyond them.

The moon was in mid-heaven, untroubled by a veil of cloud; the day wind
was resting under the edge of the world, asleep. Around and around the
public square this sentinel of the new moral force that had laid its
hand over Ascalon tramped the white road. Rangers from far cow camps,
disappointed of their night's debauch, began to mount and ride away,
turning in their saddles as they went for one more look at the lone
sentry who was a regiment in himself, indeed.

The bleached men began to yawn, the medicated women to slip away. Good
citizens who had watched in anxiety, fearful that this rash champion of
the new order would find a bullet between his shoulders before midnight,
began to breathe easier and seek their beds in a strange state of
security. Ascalon was shut up; the howling of its wastrels was stilled.
It was incredible, but true.

By midnight the last cowboy had gone galloping on his long ride to carry
the news of Ascalon's eclipse over the desolate gray prairie; an hour
later the only sign of life in the town was the greasy light of the
Santa Fe cafe, where a few lingering nondescripts were supping on cove
oyster stew. These came out at last, to stand a little while like
stranded mariners on a lonesome beach watching for a