Patterson and his supporters halted under protection of a pile of
lumber and held consultations. In the station was an unterrified
desperado who was an excellent shot and carried an abundance of
ammunition. For thirty yards on either side of the besieged was a
stretch of bare, open ground. It was a sure thing that the man who
attempted to enter that unprotected area would be stopped by one of
Calliope's bullets.

The city marshal was resolved. He had decided that Calliope Catesby
should no more wake the echoes of Quicksand with his strident whoop.
He had so announced. Officially and personally he felt imperatively
bound to put the soft pedal on that instrument of discord. It played
bad tunes.

Standing near was a hand truck used in the manipulation of small
freight. It stood by a shed full of sacked wool, a consignment from
one of the sheep ranches. On this truck the marshal and his men piled
three heavy sacks of wool. Stooping low, Buck Patterson started for
Calliope's fort, slowly pushing this loaded truck before him for
protection. The posse, scattering broadly, stood ready to nip the
besieged in case he should show himself in an effort to repel the
juggernaut of justice that was creeping upon him. Only once did
Calliope make demonstration. He fired from a window, and some tufts of
wool spurted from the marshal's trustworthy bulwark. The return shots
from the posse pattered against the window frame of the fort. No loss
resulted on either side.

The marshal was too deeply engrossed in steering his protected
battleship to be aware of the approach of the morning train until he