He was silent awhile, then:  “That harse av Windy’s,” he burst out with an oath, “I thought ‘t’was a cinch.  Somethin’ passin’ rum ’bout all this.  There’s abs’lutely no mistake ‘bout th’ harse.  Somebody in this god-forsaken burg must ha’ used him tu du th’ killin’ wid.  Well, let’s get on.”

Suddenly, as they neared the hotel, a veritable bedlam of sound fell upon their ears, apparently from inside that hostelry—­men shouting, a dog barking, and above all the screeching, crazed voice of a drunken man.

The startled policemen dashed into the front entrance, through the office and across the passage into the bar beyond, from whence the uproar proceeded.

“Help!  Murder!  Pleece!” some apparently high-strung individual was bawling.  A ludicrous, but nevertheless dangerous, sight met their eyes.

A motley crowd, composed mainly of well-dressed passengers from off the temporarily-stalled West-bound train and a sprinkling of townsfolk, were backed—­hands up—­into a corner of the bar by a big, hard-faced man clad in range attire who was menacing them with a long-barrelled revolver.  He was dark-haired and swarthy, with sinister, glittering eyes.  One red-headed, red-nosed individual had apparently resented parting with the drink that he had paid for; as in one decidedly-shaky elevated hand he still clutched his glass, its whiskey and water contents slopping down the neck of his nearest unfortunate neighbour.

“Mon!” he apologized, in tearful accents, “Ah juist canna help it!”

“Pitch up!” the “bad man” was shrieking, “Pitch up! yu’ ——­s!—­That d——­d Blake—­that d——­d Gully!  Stealin’ my hawss away’f me an’ gittin’ me fined!  I’ll git back at somebody fur this! Pleece! yes!—­yeh kin holler ‘Pleece!’—­Let me get th’ drop on th’ red-coated, yelluh-laigged sons of ——!  Ah-hh!”—­His eyes glittered with his insane passion, “Here they come!  Now! watch th’ ——­s try an’ arrest me!”

Fairly frothing at the mouth, the man, at that moment working himself into a frenzy, was plainly as dangerous as a mad dog.  Drunk though he undoubtedly was, he did not stagger as he stepped to and fro with cat-like activity, his gun levelled at the policemen’s heads.  It was an ugly situation.  Slavin and his men taken utterly by surprise hesitated, as well they might; for a single attempt to draw their sidearms might easily bring inglorious death upon one or another of them.

We have noted that on a previous occasion Redmond demonstrated his ability to think and act quickly.  He upheld that reputation now.  Like a flash he ducked behind Slavin’s broad shoulders and backed into the passage.  Picking up at random the first missile available—­to wit—­an empty soda-water bottle, he tip-toed swiftly along the passage to a door opening into the bar lower down.  This practically brought him broadside-on to his man.  A moment he peered and judged his distance then, drawing back his arm he flung the bottle with all his force.  At McGill he had been a base-ball pitcher of some renown, so his aim was true.  The bottle caught its objective full in the ear.  With a scream of pain the man staggered forward and clutched with one hand at his head, his gun still in his grip sagging floorwards.