put forth his huge strength, he roared out a torrent of Scandinavian
oaths, interspersed with the more hardy varieties of Anglo-Saxon
epithets.

"Catch hold of him," Casey ordered. "Jam your arm into his windpipe
while I break his grip." As he spoke, he kicked the big Swede sharply
on the left biceps. For an instant that mighty arm was paralyzed. Casey
grasped his wrists and dragged them loose, while McHale, his forearm
across the huge, bull-like throat, heaved back.

Oscar came apart from his victim slowly and reluctantly, as a deeply
rooted stump yields to the pull of a purchase.

"He kel my Olga! He kel my Olga!" he vociferated. "He shoot her yust
like she ban von vulf! By the yumpin' Yudas, you let me go!"

"Keep quiet, keep quiet, I tell you!" cried Casey. "You can get him
later. See this bunch coming? They'll kill you with their shovels in
half a minute."

The rush of men was almost upon them. They carried the tools which were
in their hands the moment the shots were fired--mixing shovels, hoes,
axes, pinch bars, and odd bits of wood and iron caught up on the
impulse of the instant. Behind, straining every muscle to reach the
front, ran Farwell.

Meanwhile Oscar's opponent had risen unsteadily to his feet. His eyes
searched the ground, and he made a sudden dive. But McHale was before
him.

He swooped on the revolver half buried in the dust, and whirled on the
first comers, holding the weapon jammed tightly in front of his right
hip.

"Don't crowd in on us with them shovels and things," he advised grimly.
"There's lots of room right where you are."

The rush stopped abruptly. An ugly, short-barrelled gun in the hand of
a man who bore all the earmarks of a hip shot was not to be treated
lightly. There were rough and tough men in the crowd who were quite
ready for trouble; but their readiness did not extend to rushing a
gunman unless an urgent necessity existed.

Farwell broke through them, breathless from a sprint at top speed. He
paid no attention whatever to McHale's weapon.

"What's the matter here?" he demanded. "You, Lewis, speak up!"

"This batty Swede tried to ride over me," Lewis replied. "I give him
fair warnin', and then I downed his horse. When he hits the dirt he
goes on the prod. These fellers pulled him off of me. That one's got my
gun."

"You bet I have!" McHale interjected. "You tried to plug Oscar. I seen
you cut down on him at about ten feet--and miss. Looks like you ain't
got the