“Don't come too close, gentlemen,” growled the Wolf.
Then I saw one of the men raise a six-shooter to aim at the defiant figure that faced them. I gave a spring and with one blow laid the man on the floor. There was a flash of fire as he fell, and a deafening noise was in my ears. Men all about me were striking at me. I scarcely felt their blows as I warded them off and returned them, for I was half-mad with the desperate sense of conflict against odds. But at last I felt myself seized in an iron grip, and in a moment was seated beside Doddridge Knapp on the desk.
“The time is up,” he said. “There's the sheriff and Caswell with the writ.”
“I congratulate you,” I answered, my head still swimming, noting that the enemy had drawn back at the coming of reinforcements.
“Good heavens, man, you're hurt!” he cried, pointing to my left sleeve where a blood stain was spreading. The wound I had received in the night conflict at Livermore had reopened in the struggle.
“It's nothing,” said I. “Just a scratch.”
“Here! get a doctor!” cried the King of the Street. “Gentlemen, the directors' meeting is postponed, by order of court.”