And now the bonfire burned brighter, lighting up the scene—the shambling stores around the jail on the public square, the better citizens making appeals in vain for law and order, the shouting, fool-hardy mob, waiting for Richard Travis to say the word, and he sitting among them pale, and terribly silent with something in his face they had never seen there before.
Nor would he give the command. He had nothing against Edward Conway—he did not wish to see him killed.
And the mob did not attack, although they cursed and bluffed, because each one of them knew it meant death—death to some one of them, and that one might be—I!
Between life and death “I” is a bridge that means it all.
A stone wall ran around the front of the jail. A small gate opened into the jail-yard. At the jail door, covering that opening, stood Edward Conway.
They tried parleying with him, but he would have none of it.
“Go back—” he said, “I am the sheriff here—I am the law. The man who comes first into that gate will be the first to die.”
In ten minutes they made their attack despite the commands of their leader, who still sat his horse on the public square, pale and with a bitter conflict raging in his breast.
With shouts and curses and a headlong rush they went. Pistol bullets flew around Conway's head and scattered brick dust and mortar over him. Torches gleamed through the dark crowd as stars amid fast flying clouds in a March night. But through it all every man of them heard the ringing warning words:
“Stop at the gateway—stop at the dead line!”