and, hurried out to the sidewalk,
and at the picture which met his eyes halted on the dirty threshold.

Colonel Wallifarro still stood in the car, but on the sidewalk was
General Prince, and the chivalric old gentleman was wiping blood from
his face, while the dust on his clothes told clearly enough that he had
been knocked down. Boone's veins were channels of liquid fire.

But that was not all. Morgan Wallifarro, still as immaculate as usual,
was standing two paces away, and a burly policeman with a club raised
over his head was abusing him with vicious obscenities.

So Morgan was no longer sulking in his tent! Morgan had belatedly taken
his place at the Colonel's side, and as he stood there, threatened with
a night-stick, Boone heard his declaration of war.

"I've never been in politics before," he declared in a voice of
white-hot fury, "but I'm in now to stay until every damned jackal of you
is whipped out of office--and whipped into the penitentiary. Now hit me
with that stick--I dare you--hit me!"

Still brandishing the club above the young lawyer's head with his right
hand, the patrolman shoved him roughly in the chest with his left. He
was obviously seeking to force Morgan into striking at him so that,
given a specious plea of self-defence, he might crack his skull.

It was then the voice of Boone sounded from the rear:

"Yes, hit him--I dare you, too!"

The officer wheeled, to see the tall and physically impressive figure of
the mountain man standing the width of the sidewalk away. He held a
pistol, not levelled but swinging at his side, and as if in silent
testimony that it was not a mere plaything a thin wisp of smoke still
eddied about its mouth and the acrid smell of burnt powder came
insidiously out through the door.

Boone strolled forward.

"Mr. Wallifarro, get back in that car," he directed. "This blue-belly
isn't going to trouble you."

"What the hell have you got to do with this?" bellowed the officer, but
the club came down. "You are under arrest."

"Show me your warrant."

"I don't need no warrant."

The crowd, including those who had fled from the registration room, hung
back in a yapping but hesitant circle. Blackjacking non-combatants had
proven keen sport, but this fellow with the revolver in a hand that
seemed used to revolvers, and a gleam in the eye that seemed to relish
the situation, gave them pause.

Somewhat blankly the officer reiterated his pronunciamento. "I don't
nee