bled his
fists at his sides, twisted his head.

Again a noise from Woods's cabin. Steve saw that the door had quietly
opened six inches. There was a quick movement within; the door was
flung wide open. Woods was standing in the opening, a rifle in his
hands, the barrel trained on Steve's chest. Steve saw the look in
Woods's eye, whirled and fired first. The rifle bullet cut whistling
high through the air; Woods dropped the rifle and reeled and went down
under the impact of a leaden missile from a forty-five calibre
revolver. The rifle lay just outside now.

The squat young giant with the blue eyes and shock head of hair had not
stirred. His mouth was open; his face was stupidly expressionless.

"Throw up your hands and step outside!" Steve called to him roughly.

The man started, looked swiftly about him, stepped forward, lifting his
big hands. They were still clenched but opened slowly and loosely as
they went above his head.

"Turn your back this way," commanded Steve, feeling his mastery of the
moment and knowing that he must drive his advantage swiftly. "Belly to
the wall. That's it. Next!"

A man, the man who had twice laughed, stepped forward eagerly. He
needed no invitation to lift his hands, nor yet to go to the other's
side, his face to the wall. His eyes were bulging a little; they were
fixed not on Steve Packard but on the body of Joe Woods. The timber
boss lay across the threshold, half in, half out, twisting a little
where he lay.

Now, one after another, speaking in low voices or not at all, the
timber crew came out into the stillness of the new day. Steve counted
them as they appeared, always keeping the tail of his eye on Woods's
door, always realizing that Blenham was still to be dealt with, always
watchful of the small square window in the cook's shed. Once he saw a
face there; he called out warningly and the face hastily withdrew.

At last they were outside, thirteen men with their backs to him, their
hands lifted. Stepping backward Steve went to Woods's cabin.

"Come out, Blenham," he called curtly.

Blenham cursed him but came. Stepping over Woods's body he said
threateningly:

"Killed him, have you? You'll swing for that."

"Stand where you are, Blenham." He wondered dully if he had killed
Woods. He considered the matter almost impersonally just now; the game
wasn't yet played, cards were out, the mind must be cool, the eye
quick. "You two boys on the end come o