Madeline had not time to grasp the sense of his last words. Stewart had convulsively sprung upward, white as chalk. As he leaped at Hawe Stillwell interposed his huge bulk and wrapped his arms around Stewart. There was a brief, whirling, wrestling struggle. Stewart appeared to be besting the old cattleman.
“Help, boys, help!” yelled Stillwell. “I can’t hold him. Hurry, or there’s goin’ to be blood spilled!”
Nick Steele and several cowboys leaped to Stillwell’s assistance. Stewart, getting free, tossed one aside and then another. They closed in on him. For an instant a furious straining wrestle of powerful bodies made rasp and shock and blow. Once Stewart heaved them from him. But they plunged back upon him—conquered him.
“Gene! Why, Gene!” panted the old cattleman. “Sure you’re locoed—to act this way. Cool down! Cool down! Why, boy, it’s all right. Jest stand still—give us a chance to talk to you. It’s only ole Bill, you know—your ole pal who’s tried to be a daddy to you. He’s only wantin’ you to hev sense—to be cool—to wait.”
“Let me go! Let me go!” cried Stewart; and the poignancy of that cry pierced Madeline’s heart. “Let me go, Bill, if you’re my friend. I saved your life once—over in the desert. You swore you’d never forget. Boys, make him let me go! Oh, I don’t care what Hawe’s said or done to me! It was that about her! Are you all a lot of Greasers? How can you stand it? Damn you for a lot of cowards! There’s a limit, I tell you.” Then his voice broke, fell to a whisper. “Bill, dear old Bill, let me go. I’ll kill him! You know I’ll kill him!”
“Gene, I know you’d kill him if you hed an even break,” replied Stillwell, soothingly. “But, Gene, why, you ain’t even packin’ a gun! An’ there’s Pat lookin’ nasty, with his hand nervous-like. He seen you hed no gun. He’d jump at the chance to plug you now, an’ then holler about opposition to the law. Cool down, son; it’ll all come right.”
Suddenly Madeline was transfixed by a terrible sound.
Her startled glance shifted from the anxious group round Stewart to see that Monty Price had leaped off the porch. He crouched down with his bands below his hips, where the big guns swung. From his distorted lips issued that which was combined roar and bellow and Indian war-whoop, and, more than all, a horrible warning cry. He resembled a hunchback about to make the leap of a demon. He was quivering, vibrating. His eyes, black and hot, were fastened with most piercing intentness upon Hawe and Sneed.
“Git back, Bill, git back!” he roared. “Git ’em back!” With one lunge Stillwell shoved Stewart and Nick and the other cowboys up on the porch. Then he crowded Madeline and Alfred and Florence to the wall, tried to force them farther. His motions were rapid and stern. But failing to get them through door and windows, he planted his wide person between the women and danger. Madeline grasped his arm, held on, and peered fearfully from behind his broad shoulder.
“You, Hawe! You, Sneed!” called Monty, in that same wild voice. “Don’t you move a finger or an eyelash!”