There was a stealthy movement in the crowd, and leaping upon the counter a reckless cub reached for the lamp.
Cavanagh’s revolver shattered the globe in the fellow’s very palm. “Get down from there!” he commanded.
The crowd surged back against the front door, several drawn weapons shining in their hands. Some of the faces were a-grin, others were thrust forward like the heads of snakes, their eyes glittering with hate.
It is an appalling moment to a man of discernment when he looks into the faces of his fellows and hears only the laugh of the wolf, the hiss of the snake, the snarl of the tiger. At the moment Cavanagh despised with a measureless contempt the entire commonwealth and its long-established school of violence; but fixing his thought on his far-away chief, he lost all fear. His voice was perfectly calm as he said: “I am wearing the uniform of the Federal service, and the man that interferes with me will feel the vengeance of the Federal arm. You can get me, but I’ll get some of you at the same time, and the department will get the rest.”
The mob had not found its leader. It hesitated and blustered but did not strike, and eventually edged out of the door and disappeared; but the silence which followed its retreat was more alarming to the ranger than its presence. Some slyer mischief was in these minds. He feared that they were about to cut the electric-light wires, and so plunge him into darkness, and to prepare for that emergency he called upon the bartender (Halsey having vanished) for a lamp or a lantern.
The fellow sullenly set about this task, and Ross, turning to Gregg, said: “If you’ve any influence with this mob, you’d better use it to keep them out of mischief, for I’m on this job to the bitter end, and somebody’s going to be hurt.”
Gregg, who seemed quite detached from the action and rather delighted with it, replied: “I have no influence. They don’t care a hang about me; they have it in for you, that’s all.”
Edwards remained silent, with his hat drawn low over his eyes. It was evident that he was anxious to avoid being seen and quite willing to keep out of the conflict; but with no handcuffs and the back door of the saloon unguarded, Ross was aware that his guard must be incessant and alertly vigilant. “Where are the law-abiding citizens of the town?” he asked of Sifton, who remained in the saloon.
The dry little whisp of manhood had some spark of life in him, for he said: “In their beds, the cowardly hounds!”
“They must know that this gang of hobos is threatening me.”