do so.

And an order, given by him, would mean suicide, nothing less; for from
that country in which Sanderson had gained his reputation had come
stories of the man's remarkable ability with the weapon he had
described, and Dale had no longing to risk his life so recklessly.

There was a long, tense silence. Not a man in the group of riders
moved a finger. All were gazing, with a sort of dread fascination, at
the holster at Sanderson's right hip, and at the butt of the gun in it,
projecting far, the hammer in plain sight.

The situation could not last. Sanderson did not expect it to last.
Seemingly calm and unconcerned, he was in reality passionately alert
and watchful.

For he had no hope of escaping from this predicament. He had made a
mistake in sending his men away with Williams, and he knew the chances
against him were too great. He had known that all along--even when
talking and comforting Mary Bransford.

He knew that Dale had come to kill him; that Graney had not issued any
warrant for him, for Graney knew that Maison had acted of his own
volition--or at least had given the judge that impression.

But whether the warrant was a true one or not, Sanderson had decided
that he would not let himself be taken. He had determined that at the
first movement made by any man in the group he would kill Dale and take
his chance with the others.

Dale knew it--he saw the cold resolution in Sanderson's eyes. Dale
drew a deep breath, and the men in the group behind him watched him
narrowly.

But just when it seemed that decisive action in one direction or
another must he taken, there came an interruption.

Behind Sanderson--from one of the windows of the ranchhouse--came a
hoarse curse.

Sanderson saw Dale's eyes dilate; he saw the faces of the men in the
group of riders change color; he saw their hands go slowly upward.
Dale, too, raised his hands.

Glancing swiftly over his shoulder, Sanderson saw Barney Owen at one of
the windows. He was inside the house, his arms were resting on the
window-sill. He was kneeling, and in his hands was a rifle, the muzzle
covering Dale and the men who had come with him.

Owen's face was chalk white and working with demoniac passion. His
eyes were wild, and blazing with a wanton malignancy that awed every
man who looked at him--Sanderson included. His teeth were bared in a
horrible snarl; the man was like some wild animal--worse, the savage,
primitive passions of him