ersonally he felt imperatively
bound to put the soft pedal on that instrument of discord. It played
bad tunes.

Standing near was a hand truck used in the manipulation of small
freight. It stood by a shed full of sacked wool, a consignment from
one of the sheep ranches. On this truck the marshal and his men piled
three heavy sacks of wool. Stooping low, Buck Patterson started for
Calliope's fort, slowly pushing this loaded truck before him for
protection. The posse, scattering broadly, stood ready to nip the
besieged in case he should show himself in an effort to repel the
juggernaut of justice that was creeping upon him. Only once did
Calliope make demonstration. He fired from a window, and some tufts of
wool spurted from the marshal's trustworthy bulwark. The return shots
from the posse pattered against the window frame of the fort. No loss
resulted on either side.

The marshal was too deeply engrossed in steering his protected
battleship to be aware of the approach of the morning train until he
was within a few feet of the platform. The train was coming up on the
other side of it. It stopped only one minute at Quicksand. What an
opportunity it would offer to Calliope! He had only to step out the
other door, mount the train, and away.

Abandoning his breastwork, Buck, with his gun ready, dashed up the
steps and into the room, driving upon the closed door with one heave
of his weighty shoulder. The members of the posse heard one shot fired
inside, and then there was silence.

*****

At length the wounded man opened his eyes. After a blank space he
again could see and hear and feel and think. Turning his eyes about,
he found himself lying on a wooden bench. A tall man with a perplexed
countenance, wearing a big badge with "City Marshal" engraved upon it,
stood over him. A little old woman in black, with a wrinkled face and
sparkling black eyes, was holding a wet handkerchief against one of
his temples. He was trying to get these facts fixed in his mind and
connected with past events, when the old woman began to talk.

"There now, great, big, strong man! That bullet never tetched ye! Jest
skeeted along the side of your head and sort of paralysed ye for a
spell. I've heerd of sech things afore; cun-cussion is what they names
it. Abel Wadkins used to kill squirrels that way--barkin' 'em, Abe
called it. You jest been barked, sir, and you'll be all right in a
little bit. Feel lots better already, don't ye! You just l