caught him with side glances. He smiled grimly to himself, reading
their minds. He was more determined than ever to stand or fall with
Whistling Dan that day.

There was not an officer of the law in sight. If one were present it
would be his manifest duty to apprehend the outlaws as soon as they
appeared, and the plan was to allow them to fight out their quarrel
and perhaps kill each other.

Arguments began to rise among separate groups, where the crimes
attributed to Whistling Dan Barry were numbered and talked over. It
surprised Buck to discover the number who believed the stories which
he and Haines had told. They made a strong faction, though manifestly
in the minority.

Hardly a man who did not, from time to time, nervously fumble the butt
of his six-gun. As three o'clock drew on the talk grew less and less.
It broke out now and again in little uneasy bursts. Someone would tell
a joke. Half hysterical laughter would greet it, and die suddenly,
as it began. These were all hard-faced men of the mountain-desert,
warriors of the frontier. What unnerved them was the strangeness of
the thing which was about to happen. The big wooden clock on the side
of the long barroom struck once for half-past two. All talk ceased.

Men seemed unwilling to meet each other's eyes. Some of them drummed
lightly on the top of the bar and strove to whistle, but the only
sound that came through their dried lips was a whispering rush of
breath. A grey-haired cattle ranger commenced to hum a tune, very low,
but distinct. Finally a man rose, strode across the room, shook the
old fellow by the shoulder with brutal violence, and with a curse
ordered him to stop his "damned death song!"

Everyone drew a long breath of relief. The minute hand crept on
towards three o'clock. Now it was twenty minutes, now fifteen, now
ten, now five; then a clatter of hoofs, a heavy step on the porch, and
the giant form of Jim Silent blocked the door. His hands rested on the
butts of his two guns. Buck guessed at the tremendous strength of that
grip. The eyes of the outlaw darted about the room, and every glance
dropped before his, with the exception of Buck's fascinated stare.

For he saw a brand on the face of the great long rider. It lay in no
one thing. It was not the unusual hollowness of eyes and cheeks. It
was not the feverish brightness of his glance. It was something which
included all of these. It was the fear of death by night! His hands
fell away