steady!"

He turned and flashed into the saddle. Once more his gun covered them.
He found his mind working swiftly, calmly. His knees pressed the long
holster of an old-fashioned rifle. He knew that make of gun from toe to
foresight; he could assemble it in the dark.

"You, Perkins! Get your hands away from your hip. Higher, blast you!"

He was obeyed. His voice was thin, but it kept that line of hands high
above their heads. When he moved his gun the whole line winced; it was
as if his will were communicated to them on electric currents. He sent
his horse into a walk; into a trot; then dropped along the saddle, and
was plunging at full speed down the street, leaving a trail of sharp
alkali dust behind him and a long, tingling yell.




CHAPTER 4


Only one man in the crowd was old enough to recognize that yell, and the
one man was Jasper Lanning. A great, singing happiness filled his heart
and his throat. But the shouting of the men as they tumbled into their
saddles cleared his brain. He called to Deputy Bill Dozier, who was
kneeling beside the prostrate form of Buck Heath: "Call 'em off, Bill.
Call 'em off, or, by the Lord, I'll take a hand in this! He done it in
self-defense. He didn't even pull a gun on Buck. Bill, call 'em off!"