"Starve him out? And have him give us the slip again? No. Go along, Cranbrook, go along."
Cranbrook had to obey. Forshaw, sensing a little of what this business meant to his chief, said no more. But he felt that the Superintendent was going to his death—deliberately sacrificing himself to his duty.
Cranbrook returned.
"All right, sir."
"Good. When I throw up my right hand, come after me."
The lynchers—lynchers no longer, but firm admirers of the law—gathered in a tense, awe-struck group behind the Police officers.
Hector loosed, but did not draw, his revolver. Then he walked straight out into the open, holding his arms wide, to show the hidden half-breed that he held no weapon.
Absolute stillness held the world. In the sunshine, the steadily advancing scarlet coat gleamed like a flame, inviting disaster. Forshaw and Cranbrook awaited the sound of a rifle-shot.
When within a few paces of the outlaw's hiding-place, Hector heard the click of the breech-bolt. A brown face, ferociously set, peeped from among the leaves.
"Keep off, you, keep off!" whispered Whitewash Bill.