Every one of the six men who answered the summons was an adept with fist or guns, as the need might be; every one of them had proved that he had a level head; every one of them was a respected citizen.  Sandersen was one; stocky Buck Mason, carrying two hundred pounds close to the ground, massive of hand and jaw, was a second.  After that their choice had fallen on “Judge” Lodge.  The judge wore spectacles and a judicial air.  He had a keen eye for cows and was rather a sharper in horse trades.  He gave his costume a semiofficial air by wearing a necktie instead of a bandanna, even at a roundup.  The glasses, the necktie, and his little solemn pauses before he delivered an opinion, had given his nickname.

Then came Denver Jim, a very little man, with nervous hands and remarkable steady eyes.  He had punched cows over those ranges for ten years, and his experience had made him a wildcat in a fight.  Oscar Larsen was a huge Swede, with a perpetual and foolish grin.  Sour Creek had laughed at Oscar for five years, considered him dubiously for five years more, and then suddenly admitted him as a man among men.  He was stronger than Buck Mason, quicker than Denver Jim, and shrewder than the judge.  Last of all came Montana.  He had a long, sad face, prodigious ability to stow away redeye, and a nature as simple and kind and honest as a child’s.  These were the six men who gathered about and stared at the center of the floor.  Something, they agreed, had to be done.

“First it was old man Collins.  That was two years back,” said Judge Lodge.  “You boys remember how Collins went.  Then there was the drifter that was plugged eight months ago.  And now it’s Ollie Quade.  Gents, three murders in two years is too much.  Sour Creek’ll get a name.  The bad ones will begin to drop in on us and use us for headquarters.  We got to make an example.  We never got the ones that shot Collins or the drifter.  Since Quade has been plugged we got to hang somebody.  Ain’t that straight?”

“We got to hang somebody,” said Denver Jim.  “The point is—­who?”

His keen eyes went slowly, hungrily, from face to face, as if he would not have greatly objected to picking one of his companions in that very room.

“Is they any strangers in town?” asked Larsen with his peculiar, foolish grin.

Sandersen stirred in his chair; his heart leaped.

“There’s a gent named Riley Sinclair nobody ain’t never seen before.”

“When did he come in?”

“Along about dark.”

“That’s the right time for us.  You found Quade a long time dead, Bill.”

Sandersen swallowed.  In his joy he could have embraced Larsen.

“What’ll we do?”

“Go talk to Sinclair,” said Larsen and rose.  “I got a rope.”

“He’s a dangerous-lookin’ gent,” declared Sandersen.

Larsen replied mildly:  “Mostly they’s a pile more interesting when they’s dangerous.  Come on, boys!”