“Your friends,” he cried, “have cut the water-main.  There is no water.”

The mass groaned and swayed back and forth.

From up the street came a cry—­the call of a range rider.  A score of cowboys tried to force the crowd back from the burning building.

“Look out for the front!” cried the guards.  “She’s coming!”

The crowd surged back.  The front of that flaming shell quivered, curved, and crashed to the street.

The sheriff called to his men.  An old Texas Ranger touched his arm.  “There’s somethin’ doin’ up yonder, Cap.”

“Keep the boys together,” ordered the sheriff; “This fire was started to draw us out.  Tell the boys to get their horses.”

Dawn was breaking when the cowboys gathered in the vacant lot and mounted their horses.  In the clear light they could see a mob in the distance; a mob that moved from the east toward the court-house.  The sheriff dispatched a man to wire for troops, divided his force in halves, and, leading one contingent, he rode toward the oncoming mob.  The other half of the posse, led by an old Ranger, swung round to a back street and halted.

The shadows of the buildings grew shorter.  A cowboy on a restive pony asked what they were waiting for.  Some one laughed.

The old Ranger turned in his saddle.  “It’s a right lovely mornin’,” he remarked impersonally, tugging at his silver-gray mustache.

Suddenly the waiting riders stiffened in their saddles.  A ripple of shots sounded, followed by the shrill cowboy yell.  Still the old Ranger sat his horse, coolly surveying his men.

“Don’t we get a look-in?” queried a cowboy.

“Poco tiempo,” said the Ranger softly.

The sheriff bunched his men as he approached the invaders.  Within fifty yards of their front he halted and held up his hand.  Massed in a solid wall from curb to curb, the I.W.W. jeered and shouted as he tried to speak.  A parley was impossible.  The vagrants were most of them drunk.

The sheriff turned to the man nearest him.

“Tell the boys that we’ll go through, turn, and ride back.  Tell them not to fire a shot until we turn.”

As he gathered his horse under him, the sheriff’s arm dropped.  The shrill “Yip!  Yip!” of the range rose above the thunder of hoofs as twenty ponies jumped to a run.  The living thunder-bolt tore through the mass.  The staccato crack of guns sounded sharply above the deeper roar of the mob.  The ragged pathway closed again as the riders swung round, bunched, and launched at the mass from the rear.  Those who had turned to face the second charge were crowded back as the cowboys, with guns going, ate into the yelling crowd.  The mob turned, and like a great, black wave swept down the street and into the court-house square.