"'Nds up!" cried he, sharply, covering the roomful.

Ten pairs of hands clawed upward. There were eleven men in the room.

Every one of the lot, save the eleventh man, had the impression that the six-shooters of Loudon and Laguerre bore upon him personally.

The eleventh citizen, being nearest the door and possessing a gambler's spirit, attempted to reach the street. He reached it--on his face.

For Loudon had driven an accurate bullet through the fleshy part of his thigh.

"The next fellah," harshly announced Loudon, "who makes any fool breaks will get it halfway beneath his mind an' his mouth. There's a party in the corner, him with the funny face--he ain't displayin' enough enthusiasm in reachin' for the ceilin'. If he don't elevate his flippers right smart an' sudden, he won't have no trouble at all in reachin' the stars."

The biceps of the gentleman of the face immediately cuddled his ears.

The ten men were now painfully rigid. They said nothing. They did not even think to swear. They knew what they deserved and they dreaded their deserts.

"Telescope," observed Loudon, softly, "s'pose yuh go round an' unbuckle their belts. Better go through 'em, too. They might carry shoulder-holsters under their shirts. Take the hono'ble Mister Sheriff Block first. That's right. Now, Mister Sheriff, go an' stand in that corner, face to the side wall, an' keep a-lookin' right at the wall, too. I wouldn't turn my head none, neither. Yuh see, I don't guess there'd be no fuss made if my finger should slip on the trigger. It's a heap easier to bury a man than arrest him, ain't it?"

Loudon laughed without mirth. Block's nine friends, murder in their eyes, stared at Loudon. He stared back, his lips drawn to a white line.

"Yo're a healthy lot o' killers," commented he.

The last belt and six-shooter thudded on the floor just as Loudon perceived that the wounded citizen in the street was endeavouring to crawl away.

"Telescope," he said, "I guess now the party in the street would feel a heap easier in here with all his friends."

Telescope marched out into the street and removed the wounded man's gun. Then he seized him by the collar, dragged him into the shack, and dumped him in a corner. Meanwhile, Loudon had lined up the nine beltless citizens beside Block against the side wall. They stood, stomachs pressed against the planks, a prey to violent emotions.

"Yuh can rest yore hands against the wall," said Loudon, kindly, "an'

that's just all yuh can do."

"Gimme a drink!" gasped the wounded man.

Telescope scooped up a dipperful from the bucket under the table. When the man had drunk, Telescope proceeded to cut away his trouser-leg and wash and expertly bandage the wound. His work of mercy finished, the efficient Telescope took post near the doorway where he could watch the street.

Loudon seated himself on the edge of the table and rolled a cigarette one-handed. A silence, marred only by the flurried breathing of the stuck-up gentlemen, fell upon the room.

"Block," said Loudon, suddenly, "where's Blakely?"

Block maintained his att.i.tude of silent protest. Loudon gently repeated his question. Block made no reply.

Bang-g! Block convulsively shrank to one side. The line of citizens shook. Smoke curled lazily from the muzzle of Loudon's six-shooter.

"Block," observed Loudon, serenely, "get back in position. That's right. Next time, instead o' shadin' yore ear I'll graze it. Now where's Blakely?"

"I dunno," replied Block in a choked tone of voice.

"Well, maybe yuh don't, maybe yuh don't. Ain't he at the ranch no more?"

"I ain't been to no ranch."

"I didn't say yuh had, did I?" mildly reproved Loudon. "But now that yuh've brought it up, where did yuh pick up Shorty Simms?"

"What do yuh mean?"

"Oh, I'll explain to yuh. I always do that. Habit I got. Yuh see, Block, yest'day after you an' the Sheriff o' Sunset had a few words yuh left town. To-day in comes Shorty Simms an' kills the sheriff--shoots him in the back, which is natural for a killer like Shorty.

"Well, Block, between the time of yore ridin' away yest'day an' the murder o' the sheriff to-day a fellah on a hoss like yores would just about have time to ride to the 88 ranch an' back. O' course the fellah wouldn't have time for pickin' posies on the way, but he could make it by steady ridin'. Think hard now, Block, think hard. Ain't it just possible yuh rid over to the 88?"

"No, ---- yuh, I didn't!"

"No? Well, now, ain't that curious? I sh.o.r.e thought yuh did.

Telescope, I think I see a couple o' hosses in Block's corral. Would yuh mind ridin' herd on this bunch while I go out an' look at 'em?"

Loudon went out into the street. Far down the street a group of men had gathered. Otherwise the street was deserted. Even Bill Lainey had disappeared.

Loudon stopped and stared at the distant figures. They made no hostile motions, but appeared to hold converse with each other. One detached himself from the group and came toward Loudon. He saw that it was his friend, Mike Flynn, the one-legged proprietor of the Blue Pigeon Store.

The red-headed Irishman, his mouth a-grin from ear to ear, halted in front of Loudon and stretched out his hamlike paw.

"H'are yuh, Tom, me lad," he said, giving Loudon's hand a terrific grip. "I'm glad to see yuh, an' that's the truth. Others are not so glad, I'm thinkin'." He peered through the doorway. "I thought so.

'T's all right, Tommy, me an' me friends is with yuh heart an' soul.

Though Farewell don't look it they's a few solid min like meself in the place who are all for law an' order an' a peaceful life. But they ain't enough of us, djuh see, to get all we want to once.

"Still, we can do somethin', so, Tommy, me lad, go as far as yuh like with Block an' his const.i.tuents yuh got inside. Put 'em over the jumps. Me an' me frinds will see that they's no attimpts made at a riscue. We will that. Be aisy. If yuh have a chance come to the Blue Pigeon. Not a word. Not a word. I know yo're busy."

Mike Flynn returned whence he came. Loudon was considerably relieved by what the Irishman had said. For only ten of the men who had been in the Happy Heart were in Block's shack, and the absence of the others had given him much food for thought. He hastened to inspect the horses in the corral. Within three minutes he had resumed his seat on Block's table.

"'Course I ain't doubtin' yore word, Block," he observed, "but one o'

them hosses is yore black, an' the other hoss is a gray pony branded 88 an' packin' a saddle with Shorty Simms's name stamped on the front o'

the cantle. Both hosses look like they'd been rode fast an' far.

Well, Shorty's dead, anyway. You yellow pup, yuh didn't have nerve enough to shoot it out with the sheriff yore own self! Yuh had to go get one o' Blakely's killers to do yore dirty work for yuh."

"Wat you say, Tom?" queried Laguerre. "Keel heem un tak hees hair, huh?"

"It'd sh.o.r.e improve him a lot. I got a plan, Telescope. Just wait a shake. Block, where's Rufe Cutting an' what happened to my hoss Ranger?"

"I dunno nothin' about Cutting," mumbled Block.

Instantly Loudon's six-shooter cracked. With a yelp of pain Block leaped a yard high and clapped a hand to his head.

"Up with them hands!" rapped out Loudon. "Up with 'em!"

Block, shaking like a cedar branch in a breeze, obeyed. From a ragged gash in the Darwinian tubercle of his right ear blood trickled down his neck.

"Block," said Loudon in his gentlest tone, "I wish yuh'd give me some information about Rufe. I'll ask yuh again, an' this time if yuh don't answer I'll ventilate yore left ear, an' I'll use one o' these guns on the floor here. Yuh got to make allowances for ragged work. I won't know the gun like I do my own, an' I may make more of a shot than I mean to. Yuh can't tell."

He drew a six-shooter from one of the dropped holsters, and c.o.c.ked it.

"Where's Rufe Cutting an' my hoss Ranger?" continued Loudon.

"I dunno! I tell yuh I dunno!" squealed the desperate sheriff.

One of the two guns in Loudon's hands spoke twice. Block fell to his knees, his hands gripping his head.