“Nein, nein, dot ain’d it,” was the earnest denial.  “Bud—­bud nobody vould serve a warrant on Mr. Hallock, Mr. Litchervood!  I——­”

“I’ll find some one to serve it,” said the complainant curtly, and Schleisinger made no further objections.

With the warrant in his pocket, a magistrate’s order calling for the arrest and detention of Rankin Hallock on the double charge of train-wrecking and murder, Lidgerwood left Schleisinger’s, meaning to go back to the Crow’s Nest and have McCloskey put the warrant in Judson’s hands.  But there was a thing to come between; a thing not wholly unlooked for, but none the less destructive of whatever small hope of regeneration the victim of unreadiness had been cherishing.

When the superintendent recrossed to the Celestial corner, Mesa Avenue was still practically deserted, though the group on the hotel porch had increased its numbers.  Three doors below, in front of Biggs’s, a bunch of saddled cow-ponies gave notice of a fresh accession to the bar-room crowd which was now overflowing upon the steps and the plank sidewalk.  Lidgerwood’s thoughts shuttled swiftly.  He argued that a brave man would neither hurry nor loiter in passing the danger nucleus, and he strove with what determination there was in him to keep even step with the reasoned-out resolution.

But once more his weakness tricked him.  When the determined stride had brought him fairly opposite Biggs’s door, a man stepped out of the sidewalk group and calmly pushed him to a stand with the flat of his hand.  It was Rufford, and he was saying quite coolly:  “Hold up a minute, pardner; I’m going to cut your heart out and feed it to that pup o Schleisinger’s that’s follerin’ you.  He looks mighty hungry.”

With reason assuring him that the gambler was merely making a grand-stand play for the benefit of the bar-room crowd wedging itself in Biggs’s doorway, Lidgerwood’s lips went dry, and he knew that the haunting terror was slipping its humiliating mask over his face.  But before he could say or do any fear-prompted thing a diversion came.  At the halting moment a small man, red-haired, and with his cap pulled down over his eyes, had separated himself from the group of loungers on the Celestial porch to make a swift detour through the hotel bar, around the rear of Biggs’s, and so to the street and the sidewalk in front.  As once before, and under somewhat less hazardous conditions, he came up behind Rufford, and again the gambler felt the pressure of cold metal against his spine.

“It ain’t an S-wrench this time, Bart,” he said gently, and the crowd on Biggs’s doorstep roared its appreciation of the joke.  Then:  “Keep your hands right where they are, and side-step out o’ Mr. Lidgerwood’s way—­that’s business.”  And when the superintendent had gone on:  “That’s all for the present, Bart.  After I get a little more time and ain’t so danged busy I’ll borrow another pair o’ clamps from Hepburn and take you back to Copah.  So long.”