was very pretty, despite the traces of grief
upon her face.

Kildare led the boy up before the woman and girl, and he spoke to the
latter:

"Take a good, squar' look at this yar kid, Miss Dawson, an' see ef yer
ever saw thet face afore."

The girl looked at Frank, and then fell back, horror and loathing
depicted on her face. She stretched out one hand, with a repellent
gesture, as if warning them to keep him away, and with the other hand
she clutched at her throat, from which came a choking sound. The woman
offered to support her, but she sprang up in a moment, pointed straight
at the youthful captive, and literally shrieked:

"He is the wretch who shot my poor father!"

CHAPTER IV.

FOR LIFE AND HONOR.

A sudden, mad roar went up from the crowd on the station platform. They
swayed, surged, struggled, and shouted:

"Lynch him!"

That cry was like the touching of a torch to dry prairie grass. Men
climbed on each others' shoulders; men fought to get nearer the
prisoner, and the mob seemed to have gone mad in a moment.

"Lynch him!"

A hundred throats took up the shout, and it became one mighty roar for
blood, the most appalling sound that can issue from human lips.

The face of the menaced boy was very pale, but he did not cower before
that suddenly infuriated mob. He showed that he had nerve, for he stood
up and faced them boldly, helpless as he was.

Burchel Jones, the detective, looked as if he would give something to
get away from that locality in a hurry.

A black scowl came to the face of Hank Kildare, and his hands dropped to
his hips, reappearing from beneath the tails of his coat with a brace of
heavy, long-barreled revolvers in their grasp. The muzzles of the
weapons were thrust right into the faces of the men nearest, and the
sheriff literally thundered:

"Git back thar, you critters, or by thunder, thar'll be dead meat round
hyar! You hyar me chirp!"

Lona Dawson, the banker's daughter, was badly frightened by the sudden
outbreak of the mob, and, with her older companion, she retreated into
the waiting-room of the station.

"Death to Black Harry!"

A man with strong lungs howled the words above all the uproar and
commotion.

"Bring the rope!" screamed another.

And then, as if by magic, a man struggled to the shoulders of those
about him, waved a rope in the air, and yelled:

"Hyar's ther necktie fer Black Harry!"

And then, once more, there was a roar, and a surge, and a