Warden sagged, his eyes closing as he slid to the floor and sat in the corner his legs doubled under him, his chin on his chest.

The scene had held only for an instant—­merely while Ruth screamed.  The sound had hardly died away when Singleton succeeded in grasping the pistol.  Ruth tried to squeeze past Shorty, to prevent the tragedy that seemed imminent.  But Shorty’s quick, flashing motion checked her—­made interference by her unnecessary.  There was a flash at Shorty’s side, and the crash of his pistol rocked the air in the room and the hallway.  Singleton straightened, turned slowly, looked full at Shorty.  Then without uttering a sound he pitched forward, almost at Lawler’s feet.

The roar of the pistol brought Lawler around so that he faced the door.  He saw Shorty and Ruth and the others behind them, but gave no sign.  His rage had left him; he seemed coldly deliberate.  The only sign of passion about him was in his eyes.  They were narrowed, and pin points of fire appeared to flame in them.  As though there were no witnesses to what he was doing, he stooped, lifted Warden and threw him over his shoulder.  The crowd gave way before him as he started for the stairs—­even Ruth and Shorty stepping aside to let him pass.  They watched him wonderingly as he carried his burden down the stairs and out into the street.  And then as he walked they followed him.

He went straight across the street, past some low buildings, and over a vacant stretch between the buildings and the station.  The crowd followed him—­Ruth and Shorty closely, silently watching.

The special train in which he had come was still standing beside the station platform, the engine panting as though from its long run eastward.  Ruth noted that the train crew was on the platform near the engine, interestedly watching the approach of Lawler carrying his burden.

Lawler walked to the rear end of the coach and threw Warden bodily upon it.  Then he turned and motioned toward the conductor.  The latter approached him warily, seeming doubtful of what might be in store for him from a man, who though governor—­thus carried the body of a man on his shoulder.  But he listened respectfully when he observed the clear sanity of Lawler’s eyes.

“This man is leaving Willets—­immediately!” said Lawler.  “He’s going East, to the end of this line—­at my expense.  When he regains consciousness you will tell him what I have said.”

“It’s Warden, ain’t it?” grinned the conductor.  “Well, I’ll be glad to take him.  But I’ll have to wire for orders.  This guy ain’t a bona fide passenger.”

He strode to the telegraphers window.  There was a short wait; and during the interval Warden stirred and sat up, swaying from side to side and staring about him in bewilderment.  Lawler stepped forward, leaned over the platform.

“Warden,” he said; “you are going East.  You are not coming back.  If you ever step a foot into this state again I will send you to prison for a term that will make you wish you were dead.  I have a signed confession from Link and Givens that convicts you of a crime for which this state provides an adequate penalty.  Do you understand?”