Grant did not speak, but stood unnerved and horror-stricken staring at
the saloon door which had swallowed up the boy.

"Well, for God--" cried Brotherton.

"A screen--they're going to use the boy as a shield--the damn cowards!"
rasped Nathan Perry.

The little Welshman moaned. And the three men stood staring at Grant
whose eyes did not shift from the saloon door. He was rigid and his
face, which trembled for a moment, set like molten bronze.

"If I surrender now, if they beat me here with anything less than my
death, the whole work of years is gone--the long struggle of these men
for their rights." He spoke not to his companions, but through them to
himself. "I can't give up--not even for Kenyon," he cried. "Tom--Tom,"
Grant turned to the little Welshman. "You stood by and heard Dick Bowman
order Mugs to hold the shovel over my face! Did he shrink? Well, this
cause is the life and death struggle of all the Dicks in the Valley--not
for just this week, but for always."

Below the crowd was hushed. Joe Calvin had appeared and was giving
orders in a low tone. The hulking figure of the puddler could be seen
picking out his men; he had three set off in a squad. The men in the
room could see the big beads of sweat stand out on Grant's forehead.
"Kenyon--Kenyon," he cried in agony. Then George Brotherton let out his
bellow, "Grant--look here--do you think I'm going to fire on--"

But the next minute the group at the window saw something that made even
George Brotherton's bull voice stop. Into the drab street below flashed
something all red. It was the Van Dorn motor car, the new one. But the
red of the car was subdued beside the scarlet of the woman in the back
seat--a woman without hat or coat, holding something in her arms. The
men at the window could not see what those saw in the street; but they
could see Joe Calvin fall back; could see the consternation on his face,
could see him waving his hands to the crowd to clear the way. And then
those at the window above saw Margaret Van Dorn rise in the car and they
heard her call, "Joe Calvin! Joe Calvin--" she screamed, "bring my
husband out from behind that wine room door--quick--quick," she
shrieked, "quick, I say."

The mob parted for her. The men at the hotel window could not see what
she had in her arms. She made the driver wheel, drive to the opposite
side of the street directly under the hotel window--directly in front of
the besieged door. In another instant Van D