was
slowly weaving a rope with which to hang itself.

Up in the second story of the court-house a broad-shouldered,
heavy-jawed man sat at a flat-topped desk with a clerk beside him. The
clerk wrote names in a book. In front of the clerk was a cigar-box
filled with numbered brass checks. The rows of chairs from the desk to
the front windows were pretty well filled with men, lean, hard-muscled
men of the ranges in the majority. The room was quiet save for an
occasional word from the big man at the desk. The clerk drew a check
from the cigar-box. A man stepped up to the desk, gave his name, age,
occupation, and address, received the numbered check, and went to his
seat. The clerk drew another check.

A fat, broad-shouldered man waddled up, smiling.

"Why, hello, Bud!" said the heavy-jawed man, rising and shaking hands.
"I didn't expect to see you. Wired you thinking you might send one or
two men from your county."

"I got 'em with me," said Bud.

"Number thirty-seven," said the clerk.

Bud stuffed the check in his vest pocket. He would receive ten dollars a
day while in the employ of "The Hundred." He would be known and
addressed while on duty as number thirty-seven. "The Hundred" were not
advertising the names of their supporters for future use by the I.W.W.

Bud's name and address were entered in a notebook. He waddled back to
his seat.

"Cow-punch," said someone behind him.

Bud turned and grinned. "You seen my laigs," he retorted.

"Number thirty-eight."

Lorry came forward and received his check.

"You're pretty young," said the man at the desk. Lorry flushed, but made
no answer.

"Number thirty-nine."

The giant sheepman of the high country strode up, nodded, and took his
check.

"Stacey County is well represented," said the man at the desk.

When the clerk had finished entering the names, there were forty-eight
numbers in his book. The man at the desk rose.

"Men," he said grimly, "you know what you are here for. If you haven't
got guns, you will be outfitted downstairs. Some folks think that this
trouble is only local. It isn't. It is national. Providence seems to
have passed the buck to us to stop it. We are here to prove that we can.
Last night our flag--our country's flag--was torn from the halyards
above this building and trampled in the dust of the street. Sit still
and don't make a noise. We're not doing business that way. If there are
any married men here, they had better take their h