t I stay here
till you are paid," rang the clear voice.

For an instant there came no answer, but presently from the rear ranks
rose again a bull-like roar.

"You tell us that last week."

Followed a murmur that ran through the packed mass of broad shoulders.

"I tell you again--and it's true!"

For reply, a short iron bolt came hurtling through the air. It took
Clark on the cheek. He seemed not to feel it, but stood undaunted,
while a trickle of blood crept down his smooth face. The sight of it
seemed to rouse some latent fury in the mob, and a deep growl sounded
ominously. He felt himself jerked suddenly back, and Belding and
Baudette jumped in front of him. The woodsman balanced a great shining
axe, and the engineer's automatic gleamed dully.

"Get inside, sir, quick!"

For the first time in his life, Clark felt himself passed from hand to
hand, and landed, fuming, on the other side of the big gates. The
voice of the mob lifted to an infuriated howl. Simultaneously the rear
ranks pressed forward.

Fighting began the next instant. Belding's revolver barked viciously,
while he shot low at legs and feet. Three men went down to be engulfed
in the oncoming tide. Baudette was standing firm, his cold blue eyes
alight with the fire of battle. His broad axe was cutting swift
circles around him, while he dodged a shower of missiles. To right and
left of him fifty axe handles rose and fell like flails, and behind
them was all the skill and sinew of those who dwell amongst big timber.
Then a jagged fragment of iron casting took Baudette on the knee, and
he went down.

The battle grew, while the faithful ranks thinned visibly. Just
through the big gates lay the battlemented works, and toward them
pressed the mob, now drunk with the hunger to destroy. At the moment
when it seemed that the living barrier must collapse, the rioters
wheeled to meet a new attack. With the sound of fighting, Manson
pushed on and now struck hard. His thirty constables set their batons
going, and there came the heavy crack of loaded wood on thick skulls.
Fisette, his eyes gleaming, was tapping like a deadly woodpecker with
his pick, and the impetus of this onslaught drove a formidable wedge
into the surging mass. Manson's great voice bellowed unspeakable
things in the lust of combat, his dark visage distorted, his mighty
body gathered into a great, human battering ram.

Presently the constable too went down with a shattered