The circle had re-formed.  Again were eyes fastened upon the point of fascination which had held them so long.  But now a buzz of talk hummed on the summer air.

“What in hell!” demanded Luke, in the bitterness of disappointment.

“Here, I’m—­”

Tug Burke made a move to break into the arena.  But the powerful hand of Abe was fastened about one of his arms in a grip of iron.

“Say, quit, kid!” he cried hoarsely.

The man’s harsh tones were stirred out of their usual quiet.

“Stop right here,” he went on.  “There’s just one feller on this earth has a right to butt in when Death’s flappin’ his wings around.  That’s Father Adam.  Maybe you’re feeling sick to think Laval’s going to get clear with his life.  Maybe I am.  Father Adam ain’t buttin’ in ordinary.  He’s savin’ that hothead kid the blood of a killin’ on his hands.  Guess I’m glad.”

The next moments were abounding with amazing incident.  It seemed as though a flying, priestly figure had been absorbed in the life-and-death struggle.  He seemed to become part of it.  Then, with kaleidoscopic suddenness, the men lay apart, and the death strangle hold of Bull Sternford was broken.  And the magic of it all lay in the fact that the stranger was standing over the prone combatants, his dark, bearded face, and wide, shining black eyes turned upon the living fury gazing up out of the eyes of the man who had been robbed of his prey.

“There’s going to be no killing, Bull.”  Father Adam spoke quietly, deliberately, but with cold decision.

There was no yielding in his pale, ascetic features.  One hand slipped quickly into a pocket of his short, black, semi-clerical coat, as he allowed his eyes to glance down at the still prostrate camp boss.

“And you, Laval,” he cried, with more urgency, “get out quick.  Get right out to your shanty and stop there.  Later I’ll come along and fix up your hurts.”

Young Bull Sternford leapt to his feet.  His youthful figure towered.  His handsome blue eyes were ablaze with almost demoniac fury.  His purpose was obvious.  A voiceless passion surged as he started to rush again upon his victim.

But the priestly figure, with purpose no less, instantly barred the way.

“Quit,” he cried sharply.  “What I say, goes.”

Bull halted.  He halted within a yard of the automatic pistol whose muzzle was covering him.  He stood for a second staring stupidly.  And something of his madness seemed to pass out of his eyes.  Then, in a moment, his voice rang out harshly.

“Get away.  Let me get at him.  Oh, God, I’ll smash him!  I’ll—!”