ed. The shrill scream of a frightened
woman preceded a couple of pistol shots and the sounds of a scuffle;
then, profound silence. Presently the twenty reappeared guarding a
handful of prisoners, who were disarmed and hustled across the street to
an empty barn, where they were placed under a guard of citizen
volunteers.

So they proceeded, stopping now and then to gather in more prisoners,
who were in turn escorted to the temporary jail, while the column
continued its relentless march. The system in their attack seemed to
paralyze the activities of the Moran faction and its sycophants; there
was something almost awe-inspiring in the simple majesty of the thing.
By now the whole town was aware of what was taking place; men were
scurrying hither and thither, like rats on a sinking ship. Occasionally
one, when cornered and in desperation, put up a fight; but for the most
part, the "bad men" were being captured without bloodshed. Few bad men
are so "bad" that they would not rather live, even in captivity, than
come to their full reward in the kingdom of Satan. Frightened and
disorganized, the enemy seemed incapable of any concentrated resistance.
As Santry succinctly put it: "They've sure lost their goat."

Not until the troop reached Monte Joe's place, which was the most
imposing of them all, was real opposition encountered. Here a number of
the choicer spirits from the Moran crowd had assembled and barricaded
the building, spurred on by the knowledge that a rope with a running
noose on one end of it would probably be their reward if captured alive.
Monte Joe, a vicious, brutal ruffian, was himself in command and spoke
through the slats of a blind, when the vigilantes stopped before the
darkened building.

"What d'you want?" he hoarsely demanded.

"You, and those with you," Wade curtly answered.

The gambler peered down into the street, his little blood-shot eyes
blinking like a pig's. "What for?" he growled.

"We'll show you soon enough," came in a rising answer from the crowd.
"Open up!"

Monte Joe withdrew from the window, feeling that he was doomed to death,
but resolved to sell his life dearly. "Go to hell!" he shouted.

Wade gave a few tersely worded orders. Half a dozen of his men ran to a
nearby blacksmith shop for sledge hammers, with which to beat in the
door of the gambling house, while the rest poured a hail of bullets into
the windows of the structure. Under the onslaught of the heavy hammers,
swung