rush the whole scene, the
desperation of his present situation. He had been found alone with the
dead man. Those men, when they came surging in attracted by the noise
of strife, had found him lying on Slavin, his hand clutching the
knife-hilt. He ran his eyes over their horrified faces, and knew
instantly they held him the murderer.

The shock of this discovery steadied him. He realized the meaning, the
dread, terrible meaning, for he knew the West, its fierce, implacable
spirit of vengeance, its merciless code of lynch-law. The vigilantes
of the mining camps were to him an old story; more than once he had
witnessed their work, been cognizant of their power. This was no time
to parley or to hesitate. He had seen and heard in that room that
which left him eager to live, to be free, to open a long-closed door
hiding the mystery of years. The key, at last, had fallen almost
within reach of his fingers, and he would never consent to be robbed of
it by the wild rage of a mob. He grabbed the loaded revolver lying
upon the floor, and swung Slavin's discarded belt across his shoulder.
If it was to be a fight, he would be found there to the death, and God
have mercy on the man who stopped him!

"Stand aside, gentlemen," he commanded. "Step back, and let me pass!"

They obeyed. He swept them with watchful eyes, stepped past, and
slammed the door behind him. In his heart he held them as curs, but
curs could snap, and enough of them might dare to pull him down. Men
were already beginning to pour into the saloon, uncertain yet of the
facts, and shouting questions to each other. Totally ignoring these,
Hampton thrust himself recklessly through the crowd. Half-way down the
broad steps Buck Mason faced him, in shirt sleeves, his head uncovered,
an ugly "45" in his up-lifted hand. Just an instant the eyes of the
two men met, and neither doubted the grim purpose of the other.

"You've got ter do it, Bob," announced the marshal, shortly, "dead er
alive."

Hampton never hesitated. "I 'm sorry I met you. I don't want to get
anybody else mixed up in this fuss. If you'll promise me a chance for
my life, Buck, I 'll throw up my hands. But I prefer a bullet to a
mob."

The little marshal was sandy-haired, freckle-faced, and all nerve. He
cast one quick glance to left and right. The crowd jammed within the
Occidental had already turned and were surging toward the door; the
hotel opposite was beginning to swarm; down