ted, they
felt the impact of two other strong men who flung themselves against
them, shouldered their way through, up to the side of the struggling
sheriff. Those in the way looked into the barrels of two revolvers, one
held in each hand of a tall man, a giant in his rugged strength, as
those knew whom he jostled aside in his savage on-coming.

"Hold on, men!" cried out the great voice of Horace Brooks. "I'll kill
the first man that makes a move. Law or no law, I'll kill you if you
move. What are you doing here?"

At his side there was another, a young man--white-faced--a tall young
man whom not all of them had seen before, whom not many recognized now
in the sudden confusion as they swayed back, jostling one and another in
the attempt to get away--the young man, the prisoner they had wanted and
not found. The young man swung at one arm of Hod Brooks, tried to wrest
from him one of the revolvers--sought to gain some weapon with which he
might kill. But Hod Brooks kept him away.

"Get back," he said, "leave it to us. God! Don't look at that! They've
smashed her place all to hell!"

Still another man came, running, shouting--calling out--calling some of
those present by their own names. It was old Eph Adamson, and tears were
streaming down his face.

"You men!" he called out, and he named them one after another. "You're
my neighbors, you're my friends. What are you doing here--oh, my
God!--my God! What have you done? She's a good woman--I tell you she's a
good woman."

The three of these newcomers broke their way in to the side of the
sheriff, who by this time was up to his knees. They caught his gun away
from the man who had taken it.

"Give it to me!" said the low, cold voice of the young man who was
fighting--and before his straight thudding blows a man dropped every now
and then as he came on, struggling desperately to get the weapon. "Give
it to me!"

He reached out his hand for the sheriff's gun; but still they put him
away, gasping, his eyes with murder in them.

"Get back," cried Horace Brooks. "Leave it alone. Get back. Look out,
men--he'll shoot!"

There were five of them now who made a little group. Two others came
running to join them--Nels Jorgens, the wagon-maker and blacksmith--at
his side the spare figure of the gray-bearded minister, Rawlins, of the
Church of Christ.

"Get into them now, Dan!" cried the great voice of Horace Brooks. "Break
through."

So they broke through. Men fell and st