"We want Westerling! Tell Westerling to come out!" rose the impatient shouts behind the two figures in the doorway.
"You are sure that he has one?" whispered Turcas to Westerling's aide.
"Yes," was the choking answer—"yes. It is better than that"—with a glance toward the mob. "I left my own on the table."
"We can't save him! We shall have to let them—"
Turcas's voice was drowned by a great roar of cries, with no word except "Westerling" distinguishable, that pierced every crack of the house. A wave of movement starting from the rear drove the veteran and the market woman and a dozen others through the doorway toward the stairs. Then the sound of a shot was heard overhead.
"The man you seek is dead!" said Turcas, stepping in front of the crowd, his features unrelenting in authority. "Now, go back to your work and leave us to ours."
"I understand, sir," said the veteran. "We've no argument with you."
"Yes!" agreed the market woman. "But if you ever leave this range alive we shall have one. So, you stay!"
Looking at the bronze cross on the veteran's faded coat, the staff saluted; for the cross, though it were hung on rag's, wherever it went was entitled by custom to the salute of officers and "present arms" by sentries.
As news of the shot travelled among the people the cries dropped into long-drawn breaths of thirst satiated. Their mission was fulfilled. The tramp of their feet as they dispersed homeward mingled with the urging of officers to weary men and the rumbling of wagons and guns and the sound of pick and spade on the range, where torches flickered over the heads of the working parties. But no other shot after the one heard from Westerling's room was fired. The Grays were at grip with the fact of disaster. An angry, wounded animal that had failed of its kill was facing around at the mouth of its lair for its own life.