The fellows turned out. Gemmell mounted the Maxim in a conspicuous position, pointing down the pass. He stationed his reserve behind the barrier. The remainder of the men, six all told, he drew up in a line, across the pass.
Then, in a mist of descending flakes, they waited.
"If you'll pardon me, sir,"—Sergeant Kellett tactfully placed his superior knowledge and experience at his C.O.'s disposal—"I'd parley with them first."
"Yes, Sergeant," said Gemmell.
He wished his moustache was bigger.
An hour passed.
"Are you sure they're coming?" Gemmell asked the scouts.
A sudden roar, borne on the wind, supplied the answer and a crowd of men surged over the crest below.
All alone, Gemmell advanced to meet the crowd on the boundary-line, a stone's throw in front.
Two hundred?—a low estimate. There were at least three hundred in the crowd—ruffians all, and well armed, the dregs of Prospect, the toughest town on earth. Gemmell looked for Greasy Jones or his gang but saw none of them.