Instantly the hum of voices died. Every eye turned towards the tall young constable in the doorway. Every man knew what his entrance meant.
Demon George, a lanky, powerful, lantern-jawed ruffian in a pair of long boots and an old suit, was leaning against the bar, joking with the bartender, his hat on the back of his head. He was apparently unarmed. Attracted by the general silence, he turned and saw the Marquis. Instantly, his face contracted and the laugh died on his lips. He, too, guessed what the constable had come for.
The Marquis, smiling easily, disregarded the staring crowd and strolled towards him.
"I hear you're looking for a Mounted Policeman," he said smoothly. "Here I am. And I want you."
Perhaps there was an excuse for Demon George. The Law, as he knew it in his own country, shot first and talked afterwards; and there was a price on his head, which only his own hand had kept on his shoulders. That hand now flashed to his hip-pocket.
The Marquis was steeped in the Police tradition; and remembered his C.O.'s wishes.
"Leave him to me, boys!" he sang out gaily, and closed.
They struggled fiercely, the outlaw cursing. The Marquis held his opponent's right wrist, pointing the revolver upwards. With his own right hand, he whipped in a terrific blow. The outlaw was against the wall and his head could not 'give' before the blow, which broke his jaw.
Demon George fired three shots, each shot smashing the silence but going into the ceiling. The Marquis laughed.
Then, somehow—no one knew how—the outlaw got his wrist free. Another shot rang out. The Marquis sagged suddenly, dropping his arms. And, as he staggered back—back—back against the bar, the outlaw fired two more shots, emptying his revolver into the policeman's body....