Thunder's world company were no longer lounging carelessly on the grass,
they stood erect, grouped together, their faces, tense with fear and
amazement, showing whitey-yellow in the firelight, their hands thrown
above their heads. Facing them on the other side of the fire, with his
profile to Nicholas Crips, was a short, stoutly-built man, in a coarse
blue shirt and corduroy riding pants, with a white handkerchief tied
loosely about his neck. A fine chestnut horse stood behind him. The rein
was looped over his arm. In his right hand this man held a long,
business-like Colt's revolver pointed at the group before him.

It was a fine picture, intensely dramatic, it amazed Nickie, and brought
him up short with a gasp, but it did not appeal to him as an artist
particularly. He stepped sharply into cover of a gum butt. His hand went
instinctively to his breast where, in a small chamois bag next his skin,
he carried a certain treasure the care of which was the one real concern
of his present life.

"See here," said the gentleman with the long revolver, "the first of you,
man, woman or child, that stirs a finger or utters a yelp gets lead
poisonin'. Understand?" He looked round. "This is the whole band?" he
said.

Professor Thunder nodded his head.

"Yes," said the intruder, "I was at your show at Big Timber, Professor,
an' I took trouble t' size up the strength of the crowd. I guessed it
would be an easy thing, and it is."

"Who are you?" asked the celebrated entrepreneur, much distressed to find
himself in a theatrical situation that was painfully real.