With a sardonic grin he drove them before him to Beresford.

“I’m a prisoner an’ not in this show, you was careful to explain to me, Mr. Constable, but I busted the rules an’ regulations to collect a few specimens of my own,” he drawled by way of explanation.

Beresford’s eyes gleamed.  The debonair impudence of the procedure appealed mightily to him.  He did not know how this young fellow had done it, but he must have acted with cool nerve and superb daring.

“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.”

“Barney!” repeated Gosse, surprised.

“Yes, we’ve got him and two others.  I don’t want them.  I’ll turn ’em over to you.  But not Morse and Barney.  They’re going to the post with me for whiskey-running.”

Gosse went back to the camp-fire, where the Whoop-Up men had carried their wounded leader.  Except West, they were all glad to drop the battle.  The big smuggler, lying on the ground with a bullet in his thigh, cursed them for a group of chicken-hearted quitters.  His anger could not shake their decision.  They knew when they had had enough.

The armistice concluded, Beresford and Morse walked over to the camp-fire to find out how badly West was hurt.

“Sorry I had to hit you, but you would have it, you know,” the constable told him grimly.

The man snapped his teeth at him like a wolf in a trap.  “You didn’t hit me, you liar.  It was that li’l’ hell-cat of McRae.  You tell her for me I’ll get her right for this, sure as my name’s Bully West.”

There was something horribly menacing in his rage.  In the jumping light of the flames the face was that of a demon, a countenance twisted and tortured by the impotent lust to destroy.