"Where were they? And how did you get 'em without a six-shooter?"
"They was driftin' up the pass to say 'How-d'you-do?' from the back stairway. I borrowed a gun from one o' them. I asked 'em to come along with me and they reckoned they would."
The booming of a rifle echoed in the rocks to the left. From out of them Jessie McRae came flying, something akin to terror in her face.
"I've shot that West. He tried to run in on me and—and—I shot him."
Her voice broke into an hysterical sob.
"Thought I told you to keep out of this," the constable said. "I seem to have a lot of valuable volunteer help. What with you and friend Morse here—" He broke off, touched at her distress. "Never mind about that, Miss McRae. He had it coming to him. I'll go out and size up the damage to him, if his friends have had enough—and chances are they have."
They had. Gosse advanced waving a red bandanna handkerchief as a flag of truce.
"We got a plenty," he said frankly. "West's down, an' another of the boys got winged. No use us goin' on with this darned foolishness. We're ready to call it off if you'll turn Morse loose."
Beresford had walked out to meet him. He answered, curtly. "No."
The long, lank whiskey-runner rubbed his chin bristles awkwardly. "We 'lowed maybe—"
"I keep my prisoners, both Morse and Barney."