apidly swelling
into a growl of anger, when Sheriff Thomas appeared.

"Gentlemen!" he shouted, springing upon a convenient box. "The law must
be respected, and as its representative in this community...."

"Beat it, you old turkey buzzard!" cried an irate puncher, wildly
brandishing a brace of Colts before the officer. "To hell with the law
and you, too. You ain't rep'sentative of nothin' in this community!"

"Men!" Wade began again.

"String the Sheriff up, too," somebody yelled.

"By right of this star...." Thomas tapped the badge on his vest. "I
am...."

"Pull on the rope!" cried the bearded rancher, and his order would have
been executed but for Wade's detaining hand.

"I'm Sheriff here." Thomas was still trying to make himself heard,
never noticing three men, who were rolling in behind him a barrel, which
they had taken from a nearby store. "I demand that the law be respected,
and that I be permitted to--to...." He stopped to sneeze and sputter,
for having knocked in the top of the barrel, which contained flour, the
three men had emptied its contents over the officer's head.

His appearance as he tried to shake himself free of the sticky stuff,
which coated him from head to foot, was so ludicrous that a roar of
laughter went up from the mob. It was the salvation of Monte Joe, for
Wade, laughing himself, took advantage of the general merriment to urge
his plea again in the gambler's behalf. This time the mob listened to
him.

"All right, Wade," a man cried. "Do as you like with the cuss. This is
mostly your funeral, anyhow."

"Yes, let the ---- go," called out a dozen voices.

By this time the close formation of the vigilantes was broken. From time
to time, men had left the ranks in pursuit of skulkers, and finding the
way back blocked by the crowd, had taken their own initiative
thereafter. Wade and Santry could not be everywhere at once, and so it
happened that Lem Trowbridge was the only one of the leaders to be
present when Tug Bailey was taken out of the jail. Trowbridge had not
Wade's quiet air of authority, and besides, he had allowed his own blood
to be fired by the "clean up." He might have attempted to save the
murderer had time offered, but when the confession was wrung from him,
the mob, cheated of one lynching, opened fire upon him as by a common
impulse. In the batting of an eyelash, Bailey fell in a crumpled heap,
his body riddled by bullets.

Meanwhile, Wade and Santry were searching f