ed to hasten the going by a shot between the
offender's feet.

The men were separated by not more than two yards, and Morgan made no
movement to widen the breach immediately following the marshal's command
to go. On the contrary, before any that saw him standing there in
apparent indecision, and least of all among them Seth Craddock, could
measure his intention, Morgan stepped aside quicker than the watchers
calculated any living man could move, reached out his long arm a flash
quicker than he had shifted on his feet, and laid hold of the city
marshal's hairy wrist, wrenching it in a twist so bone-breaking that
nerves and muscles failed their office. Nobody saw exactly how he
accomplished it, but the next moment Morgan stepped back from the city
marshal, that officer's revolver in his hand.

"Mr. Craddock," he said, in calm, advisory way, "I expect to stay around
this part of the country some little time, and I'll be obliged to come
to Ascalon once in a while. If you think you're going to feel
uncomfortable every time you see me, I guess the best thing for you to
do is leave. I'm not saying you must leave, I don't set myself up to
tell a man when to come and go without I've got that right over him. I
just suggest it for your comfort and peace of mind. If you stay here
you'll have to get used to seeing me around."

Craddock stood for a breath glaring at the man who had humiliated him in
his new dignity, clutching his half-paralyzed wrist. He said nothing,
but there was the proclamation of a death feud in his eyes.

"Give him a gun, somebody!" said a fool in the crowd that pressed to
the edge of the sidewalk at the marshal's back.

Tom Conboy, standing in his door ten feet away, interposed quickly,
waving the crowd back.

"Tut, tut! No niggers in Ireland, now!" he said.

"He can have this one," said Morgan, still in the same measured, calm
voice. He offered the pistol back to its owner, who snatched it with
ungracious hand, shoved it into his battered scabbard, turned to the
crowd at his back with an oath.

"Scatter out of here!" he ordered, covering his degradation as he might
in this tyrannical exercise of authority.

Morgan looked into the curious faces of the people who blocked the
sidewalk ahead of him, withdrawn a discreet distance, not yet venturing
to come on. Except for the red handkerchief that he had worn about his
neck, he was dressed as when he arrived in Ascalon in Joe Lynch's wagon,
coatless, the