“Hurry up!” snapped Denis suddenly. “Ballard, you’re the prime mover of this lynching expedition, so step along with you! If you don’t choose to chance it, put a bullet into me. You set out to do murder, so here’s your opportunity. Step out, Ballard!”
“Don’t ye do it!” cried one of the men hastily. “He means it—look at his face! Don’t ye do it!”
Most certainly Denis meant it, and his resolution was reflected in his battered face. Under the blaze of his cold eyes the four men paused, irresolute.
Then, with an oath, Ballard shoved forward, throwing up his rifle.
“You shoot me an’ you get a bullet!” he cried.
“Step up!” said Denis coldly.
The settler heaved forward, but his face was whiter than that of Denis, and sweat was on his brow. With a quick motion he raised his right foot over the threshold, brought it down, and then poised it an inch from the floor.
“Touch the floor!” said Denis. “I’m ready.”
Ballard heaved his shoulders forward, straining, as if some invisible wall were holding him back; then—he turned and stepped away.
“Go to thunder!” he snapped. “Come on home, boys. I guess Stewart is competent to get that skunk into jail without us helpin’.”