She had come again, this time like a messenger bearing a command, to
call him back to a duty which he believed he had relinquished and put
down forever. And solely because it would be treasonable to that duty
which still clung to him like a tenacious cobweb, he was riding into the
smoke of the burning town.

So he told himself as he galloped on, but never believing for a moment
in the core of his heart that it was true. Deep within him there was a
response to a more tender call than the stern trumpeting of duty--the
answer to an appeal of remorseful eyes, of a pleading heart that could
not bear the shame of the charge that he was hiding and afraid. For her,
and his place of honor in her eyes, he was riding to Ascalon that hour.
Not for Ascalon, and those in it who had snarled at his heels. For her,
not the larger duty of a sworn officer of the law riding to defend and
protect the lives and property under his jurisdiction.

Morgan pulled up his horse at the edge of town, to consider his
situation. He had left Stilwell's in such haste, and in the midst of
such domestic anguish, that he had neglected to bring one of the
rancher's rifles with him. His only weapon was his revolver, and the
ammunition at his belt was scant, due to the foolish security of the
days when he believed Seth Craddock never would return. He must pick up
a gun somewhere, and ammunition.

There was some scattered shooting going on in the direction of the
square, but whether the citizens were gathering to the defense of the
town, or the raiders were firing admonitory shots to keep them indoors,
Morgan could not at that distance tell. He rode on, considering his most
urgent necessity of more arms, concluding to ride straight for Judge
Thayer's house and borrow his buffalo rifle.

He swung into the road that led past Judge Thayer's house, which
thoroughfare entered the square at the bank corner, still about a
quarter of a mile away. As he came round the turn of the road he saw, a
few hundred yards ahead of him, a man hurrying toward the square with a
gun in his hand. A spurt of speed and Morgan was beside him, leaning
over, demanding the gun.

It was the old man who had jumped out of his reverie on the morning of
Morgan's first return to Ascalon, and menaced him with the crook of his
hickory stick. The veteran was going now without the comfort of his
stick, making pretty good time, eager in the rousing of fires long
stilled in his cooling heart. He