A fat, broad-shouldered man waddled up, smiling.

“Why, hello, Bud!” said the heavy-jawed man, rising and shaking hands.  “I didn’t expect to see you.  Wired you thinking you might send one or two men from your county.”

“I got ’em with me,” said Bud.

“Number thirty-seven,” said the clerk.

Bud stuffed the check in his vest pocket.  He would receive ten dollars a day while in the employ of “The Hundred.”  He would be known and addressed while on duty as number thirty-seven.  “The Hundred” were not advertising the names of their supporters for future use by the I.W.W.

Bud’s name and address were entered in a notebook.  He waddled back to his seat.

“Cow-punch,” said someone behind him.

Bud turned and grinned.  “You seen my laigs,” he retorted.

“Number thirty-eight.”

Lorry came forward and received his check.

“You’re pretty young,” said the man at the desk.  Lorry flushed, but made no answer.

“Number thirty-nine.”

The giant sheepman of the high country strode up, nodded, and took his check.

“Stacey County is well represented,” said the man at the desk.

When the clerk had finished entering the names, there were forty-eight numbers in his book.  The man at the desk rose.

“Men,” he said grimly, “you know what you are here for.  If you haven’t got guns, you will be outfitted downstairs.  Some folks think that this trouble is only local.  It isn’t.  It is national.  Providence seems to have passed the buck to us to stop it.  We are here to prove that we can.  Last night our flag—­our country’s flag—­was torn from the halyards above this building and trampled in the dust of the street.  Sit still and don’t make a noise.  We’re not doing business that way.  If there are any married men here, they had better take their horses and ride home.  This community does not assume responsibility for any man’s life.  You are volunteers.  There are four ex-Rangers among you.  They will tell you what to do.  But I’m going to tell you one thing first; don’t shoot high or low when you have to shoot.  Draw plumb center, and don’t quit as long as you can feel to pull a trigger.  For any man that isn’t outfitted there’s a rifle and fifty rounds of soft-nosed ammunition downstairs.”

The heavy-shouldered man sat down and pulled the notebook toward him.  The men rose and filed quietly downstairs.

As they gathered in the street and gazed up at the naked halyards, a shot dropped one of them in his tracks.  An eagle-faced cowman whipped out his gun.  With the report came the tinkle of breaking glass from a window diagonally opposite.  Feet clattered down the stairs of the building, and a woman ran into the street, screaming and calling out that a man had been murdered.

“Reckon I got him,” said the cowman.  “Boys, I guess she’s started.”

The men ran for their horses.  As they mounted and assembled, the heavy-shouldered man appeared astride a big bay horse.