At this place they saw a few men sitting outside the door, calmly smoking—­among these Sam, the liveryman, a merchant by name of Chapman, and a homesteader who was known as One-eyed Pennyman.  Inside the house, playing cards with Curly, were four other men.  Franklin noticed that they all were armed.  They all appeared, from their story, to have just dropped in to pass a little time with Curly.  From time to time others dropped in, most of them remaining outside in the moonlight, sitting on their heels along the porch, talking but little, and then mentioning anything but the one subject which was uppermost in every one’s mind.  Yet, though nothing was said, it might well be seen that this little body of men were of those who had taken the stand for law and order, and who were resolved upon a new day in the history of the town.

It was a battle of the two hotels and what they represented.  Over at the great barroom of the Cottage there was at the same time assembled a much larger gathering, composed chiefly of those transient elements which at that time really made up the larger portion of the population of the place—­wide-hatted men, with narrow boots and broad belts at which swung heavy, blued revolvers with broad wooden butts—­a wild-looking, wild-living body of men, savage in some ways, gentle in others, but for the most part just, according to their creed.  The long bar was crowded, and outside the door many men were standing along the wide gallery.  They, too, were reticent.  All drank whisky, and drank it regularly.  Up to ten o’clock the whisky had produced no effect.  The assembly was still engaged in deliberation, drinking and thinking, calmly, solemnly.

At ten o’clock a big Texan raised his glass high above his head and smashed it upon the bar.

“Law an’ order be damned!” said he.  “What kind o’ law an’ order is it to let a murderin’ Greaser like that come clear?  Which of us’ll be the next he’d kill?”

There was no answer.  A sigh, a shiver, a little rustling sound passed over the crowd.

“We always used ter run our business good enough,” resumed the Texan.  “What need we got o’ lawyers now?  Didn’t this Greaser kill Cal?  Crazy?  He’s just crazy enough to be mean.  He’s crazy so’st he ain’t safe, that’s what.”

The stir was louder.  A cowman motioned, and the barkeeper lined the whole bar with glasses, setting out six bottles of conviction.

“Curly means all right,” said one voice.  “I know that boy, an’ he’s all right.”

“Shore he’s all right!” said the first voice, “an’ so’s Bill Watson all right.  But what’s the use?”

“Loco, of course the Greaser’s loco,” broke in another speaker.  “So’s a mad dog loco.  But about the best thing’s to kill it, so’st it’s safer to be roun’.”

Silence fell upon the crowd.  The Texan continued.  “We always did,” he said.

“Yes,” said another voice.  “That’s right.  We always did.”