Warden's great figure leapt out into the moonlight.

"You damned ruffians!" he yelled. "You devils! What are you doing?"

His anger was in a fashion superb. It dwarfed the anger of the crowd.
They gave way before him like a herd of beasts. He sprang in front of
the girl, raging like a man possessed.

"You gang of murderers! You hounds! You dirty swine! Get back, do you
hear? I'm the boss of this show, and what I say goes, or, if it doesn't,
I'll know the reason why. Benson--you dog! What's the meaning of this? Do
you think I'll have under me any coward that will badger a woman?"

The man he addressed looked at him with a cowed expression on his hairy
face. "I never wanted to interfere with her," he growled. "But she's
protecting that damned policeman. It's her own fault for getting in our
way."

"You're wrong then!" flashed back Warden. "Fletcher Hill is under my
protection, not hers. He has surrendered to me as my prisoner."

"You've, got him?" shouted a score of voices.

"Yes, I've got him." Rapidly Warden made answer. "But I'm not going to
hand him over to you to be murdered out of hand. If I'm boss of Barren
Valley, I'll be boss. So if any of you are dissatisfied you'll have to
reckon with me first. Fletcher Hill is my prisoner, and I'll see to it
that he has a fair trial. Got that?"

A low murmur went round. The magnetism of the man was making itself felt.