d brow-beaten him, and becoming in turn
himself the bully. "Look at him huddlin' thar like a whipped cur-dawg!
Hain't he done es good es made confession by ther guilty meanness in his
face?"

He paused, and then with a brutal laugh he struck the cowering Rowlett
across his mouth--a blow that he had dreamed of in his sleep but never
dared to think of when awake--and Rowlett condemned himself to death
when he flinched and failed to strike back.

"Jest now, men," rushed on the exhorter, "ye seed Thornton thar facin'
death--an' he showed ye how a man kin demean himself when he thinks his
time hes come. Take yore choice between them two--an' decide which one
needs hangin'!"

Then feeding on the meat of new authority, Sim Squires, who had always
been an underling before, seized up from the hearth, where the ashes
were dead, a charred stick--and it happened to be a bit of black walnut
that had grown and died on the tree which was about to become a
gallows.

With its blackened end Sim drew a line across the planks of the floor
between himself and Rick Joyce.

"Thar, now," he passionately importuned his hearers. "Thar hain't room
in this country fer a lot of warrin' enemies thet would all be friends
save fer mischief makers. Parish Thornton hes done admitted thar's good
men amongst ye, an' we've agreed ter punish them briggatty fellers thet
kilt Pete Doane, so thar hain't rightfully no grudge left outstandin'. I
takes up my stand on this side of thet line, along with Parish Thornton,
an' I summonses every man thet's decent amongst ye all ter come over
hyar an' stand with us. We aims ter hev our hangin' without no
_dee_fault, but with a diff'rent man swingin' on ther rope!"

For the space of forty seconds that seemed as many minutes a
thunder-brooding tension hung in the stillness of the room--then without
haste or excitement Rick Joyce took off his hat and dropped it to the
floor. After it he flung his mask, and when he had crossed the line, he
turned.

"Come on, men," he gave brusque and half-peremptory invitation, "this
hyar's whar we b'longs at."

At first they responded singly and hesitantly, but soon it was a small
stampede--save for those who kept guard at the doors--and ten minutes
later Parish Thornton stood free of limb and Bas Rowlett trembled, putty
pale, in the centre of the room with bound wrists and a noose draped
across his shoulders.

"I only asks one thing of ye," faltered Bas, from whose soul had oo