Others had come—­in fact, the entire male population of Sunset was hovering in the immediate vicinity of the hotel—­but none had conquered.  There had been considerable ducking to avoid painful contact with flying glasses from the bar, and a few had retreated in search of bandages and liniment; the luckier ones remained as near the storm-center as was safe and expostulated.  To those Ford had but one reply, which developed into a sort of war-chant, discouraging to the peace-loving listeners.

“I’m a rooting, tooting, shooting, fighting son-of-a-gun—­and a good one!” Ford would declaim, and with deadly intent aim a lump of coal, billiard ball, or glass at some unfortunate individual in his audience.  “Hit the nigger and get a cigar!  You’re just hanging around out there till I drink myself to sleep—­but I’m fooling you a few!  I’m watching the clock with one eye, and I take my dose regular and not too frequent.  I’m going to kill off a few of these smart boys that have been talking about me and my wife.  She’s a lady, my wife is, and I’ll kill the first man that says she isn’t.” (One cannot, you will understand, be too explicit in a case like this; not one thousandth part as explicit as Ford was.)

“I’m going to begin on Sam, pretty quick,” he called through the open door.  “I’ve got him right where I want him.”  And he stated, with terrible exactness, his immediate intentions towards the bartender.

Behind his barricade of barrels, Sam heard and shivered like a gun-shy collie at a turkey shoot; shivered until human nerves could bear no more, and like the collie he left the storeroom and fled with a yelp of sheer terror.  Ford turned just as Sam shot through the doorway into the dining-room, and splintered a beer bottle against the casing; glanced solemnly up at the barroom clock and, retreating to the nearly denuded bar, gravely poured himself another drink; held up the glass to the dusk-filmed window, squinted through it, decided that he needed a little more than that, and added another teaspoonful.  Then he poured the contents of the glass down his throat as if it were so much water, wiped his lips upon a bar towel, picked a handful of coal from the depleted coal-hod, went to the door, and shouted to those outside to produce Sam, that he might be killed in an extremely unpleasant manner.

The group outside withdrew across the street to grapple with the problem before them.  It was obviously impossible for civilized men to sacrifice Sam, even if they could catch him—­which they could not.  Sam had bolted through the dining-room, upset the Chinaman in the kitchen, and fallen over a bucket of ashes in the coal-shed in his flight for freedom.  He had not stopped at that, but had scurried off up the railroad track.  The general opinion among the spectators was that he had, by this time, reached the next station and was hiding in a cellar there.

Bill Wright hysterically insisted that it was up to Tom Aldershot, who was a deputy town marshal.  Tom, however, was working on the house he hoped to have ready for his prospective bride by Thanksgiving, and hated to be interrupted for the sake of a few broken heads only.