The girl
saw his hold broken, and as he reeled, catching another blow in the mouth,
he swung toward her and she saw that his lips were smashed, the blood from
them trickling down over his chin. There was a gleam of wild, despairing
terror in his eyes--revealing the dawning consciousness of approaching
defeat, complete and terrible. She saw Trevison start another blow,
swinging his fist upward from his knee. It landed with a sodden squish on
the big man's jaw. His eyes snapped shut, and he dropped soundlessly, face
down in the dust.

For a space Trevison stood, swaying drunkenly, looking down at his beaten
enemy. Then he drew himself erect with a mighty effort and swept the crowd
with a glance, the fires of passion still leaping and smoldering in his
eyes. He seemed for the first time to see the Vigilantes, to realize the
significance of their presence, and as he wheeled slowly his lips parted
in a grin of bitter satisfaction. He staggered around the form of his
fallen enemy, his legs bending at the knees, his feet dragging in the
dust. It seemed to the girl that he was waiting for Corrigan to get up
that he might resume the fight, and she cried out protestingly. He wheeled
at the sound of her voice and faced her, rocking back and forth on his
heels and toes, and the glow of dull astonishment in his eyes told her
that he was now for the first time aware of her presence. He bowed to her,
gravely, losing his balance in the effort, reeling weakly to recover it.

And then a crush of men blotted him out--the ring of Vigilantes had closed
around him. She saw Barkwell lunging through the press to gain Trevison's
side; she got a glimpse of him a minute later, near Trevison. The street
had become a sea of jostling, shoving men and prancing horses. She wanted
to get away--somewhere--to shut this sight from her eyes. For though one
horror was over, another impended. She knew it, but could not move. A
voice boomed hoarsely, commandingly, above the buzz of many others--it was
Lefingwell's, and she cringed at the sound of it. There was a concerted
movement; the Vigilantes were shoving the crowd back, clearing a space in
the center. In the cleared space two men were lifting Corrigan to his
feet. He was reeling in their grasp, his chin on his chest, his face
dust-covered, disfigured, streaked with blood. He was conquered, his
spirit broken, and her heart ached with pity for him despite her horror
for his black deeds. The loop of a rope