The bluff was ended.  It was as if the wind blew a cloud suddenly from the face of the sun and let the yellow sunlight pour brightly over the world; so everyone in the room at the voice of Sally knew that the time had come for action.  There was no vocal answer to her, but each man rose slowly in his place, his gun naked in his hand, and every face was turned to Bard.

“Gentlemen,” he said in his soft voice, “I see that my friend Lawlor has not wasted his lessons in manners.  At least you know enough to rise when a lady enters the room.”

His gun, held at the hip, pointed straight down the table to the burly form of Jansen, but his eyes, like those of a pugilist, seemed to be taking in every face at the table, and each man felt in some subtle manner that the danger would fall first on him.  They did not answer, but hands were tightening around revolver butts.

Lawlor moved back, pace by pace, his revolver shaking in his hand.

“But,” went on Bard, “you are all facing me.  Is it possible?”

He laughed.

“I knew that Mr. Drew was very anxious to receive me with courtesy; I did not dream that he would be able to induce so many men to take care of me.”

And Sally Fortune, bracing herself against the wall with one hand, and in the capable grasp of the other a six-gun balanced, stared in growing amazement on the scene, and shuddered at the silences.

“Bard,” she called, “what have I done?”

“You’ve started a game,” he answered, “which I presume we’ve all been waiting to play.  What about it, boys?  I hope you’re well paid; I’d hate to die a cheap death.”

A voice, deep and ringing, sounded close at hand, almost within the room, and from a direction which Bard could not locate.

“Don’t harm him if you can help it.  But keep him in that room!”

Bard stepped back a pace till his shoulders touched the wall.

“Sirs,” he said, “if you keep me here you will most certainly have to harm me.”

A figure ran around the edge of the crowd and stood beside him.

“Stand clear of me, Sally,” he muttered, much moved.  “Stand away.  This is a man’s work.”

“The work of a pack of coyotes!” she cried shrilly.  “What d’ye mean?”

She turned on them fiercely.

“Are you goin’ to murder a tenderfoot among you?  One that ain’t done no real harm?  I don’t believe my eyes.  You, there, Shorty Kilrain, I’ve waited on you with my own hands.  You’ve played the man with me.  Are you goin’ to play the dog now?  Jansen, you was tellin’ me about a blue-eyed girl in Sweden; have you forgot about her now?  And Calamity Ben!  My God, ain’t there a man among you to step over here and join the two of us?”

They were shaken, but the memory of Drew quelled them.

“They’s no harm intended him, on my honour, Sally,” said Lawlor.  “All he’s got to do is give up his gun—­and—­and”—­he finished weakly—­“let his hands be tied.”