hanged!

"Thar comes Jeff Aiken now," called a man, loudly.

The crowd shifted and trampled in eagerness.

Duane saw two men coming fast, one of whom, in the lead, was of stalwart
build. He had a gun in his hand, and his manner was that of fierce
energy.

The cowboy Sibert thrust open the jostling circle of men.

"Hold on, Jeff," he called, and he blocked the man with the gun. He
spoke so low Duane could not hear what he said, and his form hid Aiken's
face. At that juncture the crowd spread out, closed in, and Aiken
and Sibert were caught in the circle. There was a pushing forward, a
pressing of many bodies, hoarse cries and flinging hands--again the
insane tumult was about to break out--the demand for an outlaw's blood,
the call for a wild justice executed a thousand times before on Texas's
bloody soil.

Sibert bellowed at the dark encroaching mass. The cowboys with him beat
and cuffed in vain.

"Jeff, will you listen?" broke in Sibert, hurriedly, his hand on the
other man's arm.

Aiken nodded coolly. Duane, who had seen many men in perfect control of
themselves under circumstances like these, recognized the spirit that
dominated Aiken. He was white, cold, passionless. There were lines of
bitter grief deep round his lips. If Duane ever felt the meaning of
death he felt it then.

"Sure this 's your game, Aiken," said Sibert. "But hear me a minute.
Reckon there's no doubt about this man bein' Buck Duane. He seen the
placard out at the cross-roads. He rides in to Shirley. He says he's
Buck Duane an' he's lookin' for Jeff Aiken. That's all clear enough.
You know how these gunfighters go lookin' for trouble. But here's
what stumps me. Duane sits down there on the bench and lets old Abe
Strickland grab his gun ant get the drop on him. More'n that, he gives
me some strange talk about how, if he couldn't make you believe he's
innocent, he'd better be dead. You see for yourself Duane ain't drunk or
crazy or locoed. He doesn't strike me as a man who rode in here huntin'
blood. So I reckon you'd better hold on till you hear what he has to
say."

Then for the first time the drawn-faced, hungry-eyed giant turned his
gaze upon Duane. He had intelligence which was not yet subservient to
passion. Moreover, he seemed the kind of man Duane would care to have
judge him in a critical moment like this.

"Listen," said Duane, gravely, with his eyes steady on Aiken's, "I'm
Buck Duane. I never lied to any man in my life. I was