in the morning. One of you ride out to see if
Charley Brown will throw in with us. I'll see Dad at dinner. He'll
need horse and outfit. It may turn out we can get our jailer friend,
Hurd. Wonder if he lost his job.... Ha! Ha! Well, boys, I'll know
more when I see you again."

Pan strolled down toward the town. A familiar unpleasant mental strain
dominated his consciousness. His slow, cool, easy nonchalance was all
outward. He had done this thing before, but that seemed long ago. His
father, Lucy, his mother, somehow made an immense difference between
the cowboy reactions of long ago and this stern duty he had set himself
today. He hated what his actions meant, what might well ensue from
them, yet he was glad it was in him to meet the issue in this way of
the West.

By the time he had reached a point opposite the stage office all
reflections had passed out of his mind to give place to something
sinister.

His alert faculties of observation belied the leisurely manner of his
approach to the main street. He was a keen-strung, watching, listening
machine. The lighting and smoking of a cigarette was mechanical
pretense--he did not want to smoke.

Two men stood in front of the stage office. One was Smith, the agent.
Pan approached them, leaned on the hitching rail. But he favored his
right side and he faced the street.

"Mornin', cowboy," Smith greeted him, not without nervousness. "See
you're down early to git arrested."

"Howdy, Smith. Can you give me a drink?" returned Pan.

"Sorry, but I haven't a drop."

The other man was an old fellow, though evidently he was still active,
for his boots and clothes showed the stain and wear of mining.

"Tell you, cowboy," he spoke up, dryly, "you might buy a bottle at the
Yellow Mine."

Pan made no reply, and presently the old man shambled away while Smith
entered his office. Pan kept his vigil there, watching, waiting. He
was seen by dozens of passing men, but none of them crossed toward the
stage office. Down the street straggling pedestrians halted to form
little groups. In an hour the business of Marco had apparently halted.

Its citizens, the miners who had started to work, the teamsters,
Mexicans, cowboys who happened upon the street, suddenly struck
attitudes of curious attention, with faces turned toward Pan. They too
were waiting, watching.

The porch of the Yellow Mine was in plain sight, standing out on a
corner, scarcely more than a