Knowlton’s face was white; but his eyes showed their scorn of Loring. He looked at him in contempt, and looking, to his surprise, saw the tense lines of his face light with the gleam of victory.
“You want Knowlton?” he shouted for the last time. “Then come and take him!”
As the mob surged up the steps, a body of horsemen charged them fiercely from behind. Right and left galloped the riders, beating the mob over the heads with their Winchesters, or cutting them with their quirts, riding down men beneath the weight of their horses. The mob scattered and fled in every direction. The leader of the horsemen swung out of the saddle in front of the steps, and Winchester in hand, walked up to Loring.
“Are you Mr. Loring?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Stephen.
“Well, it seems as if we were just in time—not much too early, are we? We just got your telegram in Dominion in time to raise a big posse, and pack them onto the evening train. It was about the liveliest job that I ever did, and I reckon it is one of the best,” said the sheriff, surveying the scene with satisfaction. “How did the trouble start anyhow?” he asked.
Stephen explained rapidly. At the conclusion, the sheriff turned to Knowlton: “Killed him by accident, eh? Too bad you didn’t have the pleasure of meaning to. Now I guess we’d better clean up the camp a bit, hadn’t we, Mr. Loring?”
Stephen agreed, and the sheriff sent his deputies in groups of twos and threes, to raid the tents of the Mexicans, and gather in their arms.
Knowlton approached Loring in a stupefied manner.