“Stop,” yelled Brotherton–whose great voice itself 417sounded a terrifying alarm in the darkened hallway. The feet of two men were on the first steps of the stairs–they looked up and saw three gun barrels pointing down at them, and heard Brotherton call “one–two–three,” but before he could say “fire” the men fell back panic stricken and ran out of the place.
The crowd left the sidewalk and moved into the saloon, and the street was deserted for a time. Local No. 10 held its post down by the Company Store. It seemed like an age to the men at the head of the stairs. Yet Mr. Brotherton’s easy running fire of ribaldry never stopped. He was excited and language came from his throat without restraint.
Then Grant’s quick ear caught a sound that made him shudder. It was far away, a shrill high note; in a few seconds the note was repeated, and with it the animal cry one never mistakes who hears it–the cry of an angry mob. They could hear it roaring over the bridge upon the Wahoo and they knew it was the mob from Magnus, Plain Valley and Foley coming. On it came, with its high-keyed horror growing louder and louder. It turned into the street and came roaring and whining down to the meeting place at the saloon. It filled the street. Then appeared Mr. Calvin following a saloon porter, who was rolling a whiskey barrel from the saloon. The porter knocked in the head, and threw tin cups to the crowd.
“What do you think of that for a praying Christian?” snarled Mr. Brotherton. No one answered Mr. Brotherton, for the whiskey soon began to make the crowd noisy. But the leaders waited for the whiskey to make the crowd brave. The next moment, Van Dorn’s automobile–the old one, not the new one–came chugging up. Grant, at the window, looked out and turned deathly sick. For he saw the puddler who had bullied him during the day get out of the car, and in the puddler’s grasp was Kenyon–with white face, but not whimpering.
The men made way for the puddler, who hurried the boy into the saloon. Grant did not speak, but stood unnerved and horror-stricken staring at the saloon door which had swallowed up the boy.
“Well, for God–” cried Brotherton.
418“A screen–they’re going to use the boy as a shield–the damn cowards!” rasped Nathan Perry.
The little Welshman moaned. And the three men stood staring at Grant whose eyes did not shift from the saloon door. He was rigid and his face, which trembled for a moment, set like molten bronze.
“If I surrender now, if they beat me here with anything less than my death, the whole work of years is gone–the long struggle of these men for their rights.” He spoke not to his companions, but through them to himself. “I can’t give up–not even for Kenyon,” he cried. “Tom–Tom,” Grant turned to the little Welshman. “You stood by and heard Dick Bowman order Mugs to hold the shovel over my face! Did he shrink? Well, this cause is the life and death struggle of all the Dicks in the Valley–not for just this week, but for always.”
Below the crowd was hushed. Joe Calvin had appeared and was giving orders in a low tone. The hulking figure of the puddler could be seen picking out his men; he had three set off in a squad. The men in the room could see the big beads of sweat stand out on Grant’s forehead. “Kenyon–Kenyon,” he cried in agony. Then George Brotherton let out his bellow, “Grant–look here–do you think I’m going to fire on–”