he sheriff's face.

"d----n you, I'll kill you!" roared Warlick, and he struck Wambush on the
jaw. Wambush tried to kick him in the stomach, but Bradley prevented
it by jerking him backward. It now became a struggle between three men
and one, and that one really seemed equal in strength to the other
three.

"Drap the knife!" yelled Warlick again, and he drew a big revolver, and
with the butt of it began to hammer Toot's clinched fingers. As he did
this, Bradley and Hillhouse drew Wambush backward and down to the
ground.

"I'll pay you for this, Bale Warlick," he groaned in pain, but he still
held to the knife.

"Let go that knife," thundered the sheriff. "Let it a-loose, I tell
you, or I'll mash your skull!"

"Not while I hold 'im, Bale," said the bar-keeper, sullenly. "Law or
no law, I won't he'p beat no man 'at's down!"

"Let go that knife!" The sheriff spoke the last word almost in a
scream, and he beat Wambush's knuckles so furiously that the knife fell
to the ground.

He then pinned Toot's legs to the earth with his knees, and held the
knife up to a man in the crowd.

"Keep it jest like it is fur evidence," he panted. "Don't shet it up
or tetch the blade."

Disarmed, Wambush seemed suddenly overcome with fear. He allowed the
sheriff to jerk him to his feet, and walked passively between the three
men across the street to the stone jail.

Westerfelt stood alone on the sidewalk. Everybody went to see Wambush
locked up except Harriet and her mother. They instantly came out to
Westerfelt. Harriet picked up a folded piece of letter paper.

"Did you drop this?" she asked.

He did not reply, but took the paper absently and thrust it into his
coat pocket. It had fallen from Wambush's pocket. He was very white
and leaned heavily against a sycamore-tree.

"Oh, he's cut your coat; look!" Harriet cried.

Still he did not speak. He looked down at the slit in the cloth and
raised his hand towards it, but his arm fell limply and he swayed from
side to side.

"Are you hurt?" asked Mrs. Floyd, anxiously.

"I think not," he said; "but maybe I am, a little."

Harriet opened his coat and screamed, "Oh, mother, he's cut! Look at
the blood!"

He tried to button his coat, but could not use his fingers. "Only a
scratch," he said.

"But your clothes are wet with blood," Harriet insisted, as she pointed
to his trousers.

He stooped and felt them. They were damp and heavy. Then he raised
his heel