"None o' that, Ben," he growled, warningly. "It don't never pay to

shoot holes in Uncle Sam."

Brant smiled. He was not there just then to fight, but to secure delay

until his own men could arrive, and to turn aside the fierce mob spirit

if such a result was found possible. He knew thoroughly the class of

men with whom he dealt, and he understood likewise the wholesome power

of his uniform.

"I really would enjoy accommodating you, Colton," he said, coolly,

feeling much more at ease, "but I never fight personal battles with

such fellows as you. And now, you other men, it is about time you woke

up to the facts of this matter. A couple of hundred of you chasing

after two men, one an officer of the law doing his sworn duty, and the

other innocent of any crime. I should imagine you would feel proud of

your job."

"Innocent? Hell!"

"That is what I said. You fellows have gone off half-cocked--a mob

generally does. Both Miss Spencer and Mr. Wynkoop state positively

that they saw the real murderer of Red Slavin, and it was not Bob

Hampton."

The men were impressed by his evident earnestness, his unquestioned

courage. Colton laughed sneeringly, but Brant gave him no heed beyond

a quick, warning glance. Several voices spoke almost at once.

"Is that right?"

"Oh, say, I saw the fellow with his hand on the knife."

"After we git the chap, we 'll give them people a chance to tell what

they know."

Brant's keenly attentive ears heard the far-off chug of numerous

horses' feet.

"I rather think you will," he said, confidently, his voice ringing out

with sudden authority.

He stepped back, lifted a silver whistle to his lips, and sounded one

sharp, clear note. There was a growing thunder of hoofs, a quick,

manly cheer, a crashing through the underbrush, and a squad of eager

troopers, half-dressed but with faces glowing in anticipation of

trouble, came galloping up the slope, swinging out into line as they

advanced, their carbines gleaming in the sunlight. It was prettily,

sharply performed, and their officer's face brightened.

"Very nicely done, Watson," he said to the expectant sergeant. "Deploy

your men to left and right, and clear out those shooters. Make a good

job of it, but no firing unless you have to."

The troopers went at it as if they enjoyed the task, forcing their

restive horses through the thickets, and roughly handling more than one

who ventured to question their authority. Yet the work was over in

less time than it takes to tell, the discomfited regulators driven

pell-mell down the hill and back into the town, the eager cavalrymen

halting only at the command of the bugle. Brant, confident of his

first sergeant in such emergency, merely paused long enough to watch

the men deploy, and then pressed straight up the hill, alone and on

foot. That danger to the besieged was yet imminent was very evident.

The black spiral of smoke had become an enveloping cloud, spreading

rapidly in both directions from its original starting-point, and

already he could distinguish the red glare of angry flames leaping

beneath, fanned by the wind into great sheets of fire, and sweeping

forward with incredible swiftness. These might not succeed in reaching

the imprisoned men, but the stifling vapor, the suffocating smoke held

captive by that overhanging rock, would prove a most serious menace.




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