Across the main street the two men walked, wearing their hats low and making no answer to shouted questions of those hurrying to the courthouse yard. Already the grounds about the court house and the street in front were jammed with eager, excited Mexicans, thrilled with an expectation of something to happen, though they knew not exactly what. The murderer, the killer, they have taken the killer, was the constant statement tossed from mouth to mouth.

“But not the killer they think,” Madden said, in a low aside to Weir as they moved ahead on their errand.

The pair were now advancing toward the saloon, along the opposite side of the street where a slight shadow afforded them concealment. By the time they came opposite the building they had escaped altogether from the crowd, though looking thither over shoulder they could see the black press of people in the moonlight at the public building; and here the street was empty except for a few belated women and children running toward the assemblage.

Madden’s hand suddenly gripped the engineer’s arm as they were about to step forth from the shadow to cross the street to the saloon.

“There he is,” the sheriff whispered.

Vorse had pushed open the slatted door of his place and stepped outside. In the moonlight his figure and 271 face were clearly visible: his thin whip-cord body and predatory face, and bald head as shiny and hard as a fish-scale. He wore no coat, while his vest hung unbuttoned and open as usual. About his waist was an ammunition belt carrying a holster, as if he were prepared for action.

Thus he stood for a time, hands on hips, motionless, his cruel hatchet-like face directed towards the scene further along the street. Presently a man came running to him, Miguel, his bartender, who had been one of the two men serving out whiskey to the workmen at the old adobe house and who at the break-up of the spree had hastened back to town to report to his employer. Now, it seemed, he had fresher news to give.

“Yes, it is the engineer, for a certainty,” he exclaimed panting, as he stopped before Vorse. “The sheriff arrested him and he now lies in jail there. It is said he fought and tried to shoot Madden, but that the sheriff was too quick and shot the gun out of his hand. It is said also that the dam is blown into a million little stones, but men are riding there on horses to see for themselves. They will soon return. Anyway a fight there was up there undoubtedly, for Madden brought in not only the engineer but three other men, bound and handcuffed and struggling furiously, trying to strike and bite the crowd like mad dogs. From time to time the sheriff had to beat them on the heads with his pistol, especially the engineer, who is the worst. I did not see them, but those who did said their faces were streaming with blood.”

“All right. Go find JosÉ Molina and ‘Silver’ Leon.”

“Are they not up in the hills with their bands of sheep?”

“No. They are here. Look around till you find them; then send them to me.”

“That means something lively to happen, eh?” Miguel said with a laugh.

He did not wait, however, for an answer, but set off at once for the court house.

“I hope Meyers shows up soon with more men,” Madden said to Weir. “Those two sheepherders of Vorse’s are a pair of snakes; he always hires that kind; and they probably have some fellows with them like themselves.”

“Meyers is on the way with twenty men or so by this time. They had to come in wagons, as we had the cars. Atkinson ought to be able to stand off the crowd with the half dozen boys he has until the others arrive.”

While they had conducted this brief exchange of opinions they had kept their gaze on the saloon-keeper, who continued to stand before his door. The cold and merciless character of the man was never more revealed than now as he waited for his hired assassins to come to receive orders. Possessing already a full knowledge of the plot, Weir and Madden were able to guess what culmination was now contemplated and measure the true depth of the conspirators’ infamy. The sheriff especially boiled with inward wrath that they should expect to make him not only a dupe but a tool in their crime.

“It’s clear they never intended you should come to trial when arrested,” he said to his companion.

“Certainly not. That isn’t the way they play the game. And I suppose Vorse there imagines the cards are all falling his way at this moment.”

“He’s going in.”

“Good. Now then!”

Weir struck off across the street, striding forward at a pace Madden found it difficult to keep. As they neared the door, Weir loosened the gun in his holster.

In this action the sheriff imitated him and then changing his mind drew the weapon itself. Plain man that he was, he was an instinctive judge of character; he had encountered men of Vorse’s type before, less shrewd but equally savage; their nature was to fight, not surrender; their way was to kill or be killed in the final issue. He anticipated no arrest.

He felt no necessity, however, to express this view to the engineer, who had proved himself in the time he had been at San Mateo wholly competent to deal with any situation that arose. Moreover, while Vorse had had a reputation of being a quick shot in the past, he was confident Weir was his master.

With a quiet movement the engineer pushed open the door and stepped into the saloon. Madden following him had allowed the slatted door to swing shut again and the sound of its hinges caused Vorse, who was just starting away from the bar, to turn about. In his hand was a tray holding a bottle of whiskey, a bottle of mineral water and glasses, which apparently he had just lifted up.

For a space of ten seconds or so he remained unmoving, the tray in his hand and his eyes regarding the visitors fixedly. Behind him in the rear of the saloon a second man had sprung up from the table where he sat, but after that first startled action he, too, had not stirred. The man was Sorenson.

With Madden at his side and with a grim smile on his lips Weir walked slowly towards Vorse. In his tread there was something of the quality of a tiger’s, the light, deliberate, poised advance, the easy and dangerous movement 274 of body, the effortless glide of a powerful animal ready to spring and strike. His hands swung idly at his sides, but that did not mean they would not be swift once they responded to the call of the brain that controlled them.

“You gentlemen were just about to celebrate my downfall, I perceive, by pouring a libation,” Weir said. “Don’t let me interrupt. Only I must request you to conduct the proceedings there where you’re standing, Vorse, instead of at the rear of the room: Madden and I wish a good view of the ceremony. If Mr. Sorenson will be so agreeable as to step forward, you may go ahead.”

Sorenson did not join Vorse, but instead he spoke.

“Why haven’t you locked up your prisoner, Madden?” he demanded harshly. “And you’re letting him keep his gun. Don’t you know enough to disarm a murderer and throw him into jail when you arrest him?”

“I haven’t arrested him yet,” was the sheriff’s answer.

“Well, do it then. You have the warrant for the scoundrel. Perhaps you haven’t heard he almost killed my boy Ed last night––and you’re allowing him to walk around with you as if he were a bosom friend. Do your duty, or we’ll get a sheriff who will.”

“That’s why I’m here, to do my duty.”

“You didn’t have to bring this man here to do it.”

“I decided to bring him, however.”

From Vorse had come not a word. Only his gleaming evil eyes continued to rest on the two men without wink or change. For him explanations were unnecessary; he had divined instantly that somewhere, somehow the plotters’ plans had gone awry.

“Did you know that Gordon is dead?” Weir asked, all at once.

Vorse lowered the tray to the bar and ran the tip of his tongue over his lips.

“No,” said he, “we didn’t know it.”

“He deeded his property over this evening and then swallowed poison,” the engineer stated. “He saw the game was up.”

“You can’t make me believe your lies,” came sneering from Sorenson. “And you shall pay, you and that girl, for every broken bone in my boy’s body. I’ll spend my last dollar for that if necessary. Madden, do your duty and lock him up.”

The sheriff said nothing, but lifted his gun a little. Vorse by a slight movement of his body had edged from the bar as if to gain freedom for action.

“The game’s up for you men too,” Weir said. “You’ve murdered and robbed and swindled in this country long enough; I’ve got the proof and I’m going to remove you from this community. It’s not I who will be arrested. You killed Jim Dent after cleaning him out at cards and then made my father believe he was guilty of the crime. All I fear is that the court will hang you instead of sending you up for life; that would be too good for you. I want your crooked souls to die a thousand deaths within stone walls before you die in body. The game’s up, I say. I’ve Saurez’ deposition and I’ve the man who was the boy looking in the back door there that day thirty years ago and saw you shoot Dent, and he’ll go on the stand against you.”

A stillness so profound that one could hear the tiny insects hovering about the lamps succeeded this statement. If words had not been enough, Weir’s cold, harsh face would have removed the men’s last hope, for on it was not a single trace of relenting. A stone could have been no flintier.

“Well?” Vorse inquired softly.

His arched bony nose appeared thinner and more hawk-like. His lips were compressed in a white scornful smile, while his eyelids now drooped until but slits of light showed from the orbs.

“And you may be interested to know Burkhardt and some of the Mexicans he hired are now locked up in jail; the rest, or nearly all, are dead,” Weir continued, with slow distinctness. “Your little scheme to blow up the dam and burn the camp failed. We caught Burkhardt at the spot leading the gang. Your plot to make the workmen drunk and leave the dam unprotected worked well enough so far as that part was concerned, but a keg of powder dropped on your bunch of imported bandits ended that part of the show. And we have Burkhardt! You gentlemen are going to join him in the jail, where we shall give you all the care and attention you deserve.”

Vorse turned his head about towards Sorenson.

“Do you hear?” he asked.

“Madden, you’ve too much sense to believe all this trumped-up libel!” Sorenson exclaimed furiously. “About us, respected leaders of this town! Arrest the blackguard!”

Even facing assured proof of his complicity and guilt, the cattleman still believed in the power of his wealth and influence, in his ability to browbeat opponents, to command the man he had elected to office, to dominate and ruthlessly crush by sheer will power all resistance, as he had done for years.

“I take no orders from you,” the sheriff replied.

“Well, I suppose I can empty the till and lock the safe before going?” Vorse questioned.

“No. Keep in front of the bar where you are,” the sheriff commanded.

“And have everything stolen.”

“Your bar-keeper will be back presently. He will look after things for you.”

“You say Burkhardt is locked up?”

“Yes.”

“That will hurt his pride,” Vorse laughed. “He always swore that no one should put him behind bars. He wouldn’t have minded so much finishing in a gun-fight, but to serve a term in prison would surely go against the grain with Burk. Though I think with Sorenson–––”

Weir’s eyes had never left the speaker. Through the other’s inconsequential talk and apparently careless acceptance of the fact of arrest the engineer had noted the tense gathering of the man’s body.

“Put your hands up,” he interrupted at this point.

Vorse had uttered no following word after speaking Sorenson’s name; his voice terminated abruptly. At the same instant his right hand flew to his holster and whipped out his gun. It was the advantageous time for which he had waited, for Madden’s look which had been moving back and forth from Vorse to Sorenson so as to cover both had passed to the latter. And Weir’s weapon was undrawn.

But if Vorse drew fast, the engineer’s motion was like a flash of light. His weapon leaped on a level with the other’s breast. The report sounded a second before that of Vorse’s and three before Madden’s, who also had fired.

Then, if ever, Steele Weir had displayed his amazing speed in beating an enemy to his gun, for Vorse had indeed been quick, keyed by a knowledge that for him this meant imprisonment or freedom, a slow death or liberty.

For a minute he stood half crouching as he had been at the instant of shooting, his eyes glaring balefully at his enemy and the thin cruel smile on his lips, while the two men in front stood warily waiting with weapons extended. Then Vorse clutched at his breast, muttered thickly and toppled over full length on the floor.

The sharp pungent smell of powder smoke mingled with the reek of liquor.

“He’s dead,” Madden said.

“Yes.”

“Are you hit?”

“No. His bullet went past my hip; he never got his gun up.”

Madden glanced about towards the rear of the room. A command for Sorenson to stop broke from his lips. Next he fired. And Weir swinging his look that way saw Sorenson’s form, untouched by the bullet, vanishing through the rear door into the night. Using the minute that the two men’s surveillance had been lifted he had escaped.

“Hard luck when we had him,” Weir growled.

“He can’t get away.”

“I’m not so sure. And he’s armed.”

“He’ll strike for home to get his car.”

“Or to the office for money,” Weir exclaimed.