“We’ll show you what’s law!  And we’ll show you the right kind of a flag—­”

“Boys, are you going to stand for this kind of talk?” And the sheriff’s heavy face quivered with anger.  “I’d admire to kill you!” he said, turning on the youth.  “But that wouldn’t do any good.”

The agitator was taken to the jail.  Later it was rumored that a machine had left the jail that night with three men in it.  Two of them were armed guards.  The third was a weasel-faced youth.  He was never heard of again.

As the cavalcade moved on down the street, workmen gathered on street corners and in upper rooms and discussed the situation.  The strike had got beyond their control.  Many of them were for sending a delegation to the I.W.W. camp demanding that they disband and leave.  Others were silent, and still others voted loudly to “fight to a finish.”

Out beyond the edge of town lay the I.W.W. camp, a conglomeration of board shacks hastily erected, brush-covered hovels, and tents.  Not counting the scattered members in town, there were at least two hundred of the malcontents loafing in camp.  When the sheriff’s posse appeared it was met by a deputation.  But there was no parley.

“We’ll give you till sundown to clear out,” said the sheriff and, turning, he and his men rode back to the court-house.

That evening sentinels were posted at the street corners within hail of each other.  In a vacant lot back of the court-house the horses of the posse were corralled under guard.  The town was quiet.  Occasionally a figure crossed the street; some shawl-hooded striker’s wife or some workman heedless of the sheriff’s warning.

Lorry happened to be posted on a corner of the court-house square.  Across the street another sentinel paced back and forth, occasionally pausing to talk with Lorry.

This sentinel was halfway up the block when a figure appeared from the shadow between two buildings.  The sentinel challenged.

“A friend,” said the figure.  “I was lookin’ for young Adams.”

“What do you want with him?”

“It’s private.  Know where I can find him?”

“He’s across the street there.  Who are you, anyway?”

“That’s my business.  He knows me.”

“This guy wants to talk to you,” called the sentinel.

Lorry stepped across the street.  He stopped suddenly as he discovered the man to be Waco, the tramp.

“Is it all right?” asked the sentinel, addressing Lorry.

“I guess so.  What do you want?”

“It’s about Jim Waring,” said Waco.  “I seen you when the sheriff rode up to our camp.  I seen by the papers that Jim Waring was your father.  I wanted to tell you that it was High-Chin Bob what killed Pat.  I was in the buckboard with Pat when he done it.  The horses went crazy at the shootin’ and ditched me.  When I come to I was in Grant.”

“Why didn’t you stay and tell what you knew?  Nobody would ‘a’ hurt you.”