way is not here yet," he snapped. And, lifting his voice: "Come
on, Galloway."

A crowd had gathered in the street, asking questions that went
unanswered. Other hands added fuel to Cutter's fire. The increasing
light at last penetrated the blackness filling the barroom.

"Come out, Galloway," said Struve coldly. "I've got you covered."

Since things were bad enough as they were, and he had no desire to make
them worse and saw no opportunity to better them, Jim Galloway, his
hand nursing a bleeding shoulder, stumbled awkwardly through the
opening.

"Is that all of 'em, Roddy?" called Cutter. Norton didn't answer. The
deputy called again. Then, while the crowd surged about door and
window. Cutter came in, a revolver in his right hand, a torch of a
burning fagot in his left, held high.

Vidal Nunez was dead; not from a blow upon the head, but from a chance
bullet through the heart after he had fallen. Kid Rickard, his sullen
eyes wide with their pain, lay half under a poker table. Lying across
the body of Nunez, as though still guarding his prisoner, was the quiet
form of Rod Norton, his face bloodlessly white save for the smear of
blood which had run from the wound hidden by the close-cropped, black
hair.

CHAPTER XII

WAVERING IN THE BALANCE

Ignacio Chavez, waiting to ask no questions, had raced away through the
darkness to beat out a wild alarm upon his bells. Later he would learn
how many were dead and would set the Captain mourning. But already had
San Juan poured out her handful of citizens upon the street.

"Keep those men where they are," called Tom Cutter to Struve. "Every
damned one of them; there'll be an answer wanted for to-night's work.
Get a doctor, somebody; Patten or Miss Page."

Candles were brought; presently a lamp was found and set on the bar.
The curious began to desert Struve and his prisoners outside, and to
crowd about Cutter and the two forms lying still in the corner. Kid
Rickard, cursing now and then, had dragged himself a little away and
grew quiet, half propped up against the wall. Struve, as the fire of
fagots and grass began to burn low, commanded Galloway to lead the way
back into the barroom and herded five other men after him, the shotgun
promising a mutilated body to any man of them who sought to run for it.

"Nunez is dead," reported the deputy sheriff, getting up from his
knees. "Norton is alive and that's about all. A shot along the side
of the he