The two men battled with their eyes for an opening. Lee and the others mastered their surprise at the interruption, and then began to babble until Burrell turned from the gambler and threw up his arm for silence.
"There's no use arguing," he told the mob. "You can't do it. I'll hold him till the next boat comes, then I'll send him down-river to St. Michael's."
He laid his hand upon the negro and made for the door, with face set and eyes watchful and alert, knowing that a hair's weight might shift the balance and cause these men to rive him like wolves.
Lee's indignation at this miscarriage of justice had him so by the throat as to strangle expostulation for a moment, till he saw the soldier actually bearing off his quarry. Then he broke into a flood of invective.
"Stop that!" he bellowed. "To hell with YOUR law—we're goin' accordin' to our own." An ominous echo arose, and in the midst of it the miner, in his blind fury forgetting his exalted position, took a step too near the edge of the bar, and fell off into the body of the meeting. With him fell the dignity of the assemblage. Some one laughed; another took it up; the nervous tension broke, and a man cried:
"The soldier is right. You can't blame a dinge for stealing," and another: "Sure! Hogs and chickens are legitimate prey."
Lee was helped back to his stand, and called for order; but the crowd poked fun at him, and began moving about restlessly till some one shouted a motion to adjourn, and there arose a chorus of seconders. A few dissenting voices opposed them, but in the meantime Burrell was gone, and with him the cause of the tumult; so the meeting broke up of its own weight a moment later.
As Poleon and Gale walked home, the Frenchman said, "Dat was nervy t'ing to do."
The trader made no answer, and the other continued, "Stark is goin' for kill 'im, sure."
"It's a cinch," agreed Gale, "unless somebody gets Stark first."