Silence fell for an instant, then from the rear of the party there came pushing and crowding and cries of “Burn the house—­drive him out!” There was a rush, but it was met by a silent thickening of the line at the point assailed.  Men scuffled with men, swearing and grunting, panting hard.  Here and there weapons flashed dully, though as yet no shot was fired.  Time and again Franklin raised his voice.  “Men, listen to me!” he cried.  “We promise you a fair trial—­we promise—­”

“Shut up!” cried the leader, and cries of “No talking!” came from the crowd.  “Give him up, or we’ll clean you all out!” cried another voice, angrily.  The rushers toward the house grew closer, so that assailants and besiegers were now mingled in a fighting, swearing mass.

“You’re no cowman, Curly,” cried one voice, bitterly, out of the black shifting sea in front of the house.

“You’re a d——­d liar!” cried Curly in reply, “whoever says that to me!  I’m only a-keepin’ of my word.  You kain’t clean us out.  I’ll shoot the livin’ soul out o’ any man that touches that door!  This here is the jail, an’ I’m the deppity, and, by ——! you’ll not have my prisoner!”

“Quite right, me man,” said a cool voice at Curly’s side, and a hand fell on his shoulder as a tall form loomed up in the crowd.  “There’s good matayrial in you, me bully.  Hould yer position, an’ be sure that Batty’s with you, at the laste.  Fair play’s a jule, an’ it’s fair play we’re goin’ to have here.”

Backed by a crowd of men whose resolution was as firm as their own, these three fell back in front of the door.  Franklin felt his heart going fast, and knew that more was asked of him here than had ever been upon the field of battle; yet he was exultant at the discovery that he had no thought of wavering.  He knew then that he had been proved.  With equal joy he looked upon the face of Curly, frowning underneath the pushed-back hat, and upon that of Battersleigh, keen-looking, eager, as though about to witness some pleasurable, exciting thing.  Yet he knew the men in front were as brave as they, and as desperately resolved.  In a moment, he reflected, the firing would begin.  He saw Curly’s hands lying lightly upon the butts of his revolvers.  He saw Battersleigh draw his revolver and push with the side of the barrel against the nearest men as though to thrust them back.  He himself crowded to the fore, eager, expectant, prepared.  One shot, and a score of lives were done, and dark indeed would be this night in Ellisville.

Suddenly the climax came.  The door was thrust irresistibly open, not from without, but from within.  Stooping, so that his head might clear its top, the enormous figure of Juan, the Mexican, appeared in the opening.  He looked out, ignorant of the real reason of this tumult, yet snuffing conflict as does the bear not yet assailed.  His face, dull and impassive, was just beginning to light up with suspicion and slow rage.