High in the air went the chair to descend again—and to carry with it the form of a plotter. Again—and again—and again. Then Harrison Grant felt the chair wrested from his grasp and thrown far to one side. A screaming voice echoed in his ears——
"Now we've got him! Come on men!"
Grant had his back to the wall. Regardless of the danger of exploding the dynamite he brought forth his revolvers.
"Stand back there," he shouted. "The first man who comes at me gets a bullet! Understand? Stand back there!"
They hesitated just a second. Then the rush came again. The crackle of Grant's revolver sounded—to be echoed by a groan as a man fell. Then the sheer weight of men bore him down, crushing his revolver from his grasp, pinioning his wrists, while fists beat upon his breast and his face.
From far away came a slight clattering sound—the sound of hoof beats. It sent new life into Harrison Grant. He broke from his assailants and with tremendous crashing blows, again cleared a space before him. But only for a moment—then his opponents closed in again.
But above the shouting, above the racking pain, above everything, could be heard the clattering of those hoofs—coming closer, closer, closer——
Sudden shouts came from the crowd that surged on the platform. The crashing of great blows against the doors. A new milling of the assailants, as they left the platform and sought to guard the doors of the great warehouse. But impossible. One after another, the dazed, wavering form of Harrison Grant saw the doors surge and splinter, as the trained horses of the constabulary sent thundering kicks against them. Panic stricken now, the members of the I.W.W. sought escape through those doors and through the windows of the great room. But that was impossible also. Beneath every window waited a member of the constabulary. And at the doors—
One after another they yielded, to allow the entrance of the mounted men of the constabulary, riding straight into the meeting hall, their horses vaulting chairs and obstructions as they circled about the big room, rounding up the criminals. Resistance had disappeared. Like sheep they were herded to one end of the hall, the men who but a few minutes before had been obsessed with a mania for destruction. A smile came to Grant's lips as he watched. Then, the whole hall went suddenly black before his eyes, and he fell to the platform unconscious from his hurts.
When he became aware of the world again, it was to feel the tender touch of a woman's hand and to hear a soft voice of sympathy. His eyes opened, to look into those of Dixie Mason, bending over him, smoothing the hair from his discolored temples, seeking to assuage his wounds and bruises. He smiled in spite of the pain of his injuries.