The shock of this discovery steadied him.  He realized the meaning, the dread, terrible meaning, for he knew the West, its fierce, implacable spirit of vengeance, its merciless code of lynch-law.  The vigilantes of the mining camps were to him an old story; more than once he had witnessed their work, been cognizant of their power.  This was no time to parley or to hesitate.  He had seen and heard in that room that which left him eager to live, to be free, to open a long-closed door hiding the mystery of years.  The key, at last, had fallen almost within reach of his fingers, and he would never consent to be robbed of it by the wild rage of a mob.  He grabbed the loaded revolver lying upon the floor, and swung Slavin’s discarded belt across his shoulder.  If it was to be a fight, he would be found there to the death, and God have mercy on the man who stopped him!

“Stand aside, gentlemen,” he commanded.  “Step back, and let me pass!”

They obeyed.  He swept them with watchful eyes, stepped past, and slammed the door behind him.  In his heart he held them as curs, but curs could snap, and enough of them might dare to pull him down.  Men were already beginning to pour into the saloon, uncertain yet of the facts, and shouting questions to each other.  Totally ignoring these, Hampton thrust himself recklessly through the crowd.  Half-way down the broad steps Buck Mason faced him, in shirt sleeves, his head uncovered, an ugly “45” in his up-lifted hand.  Just an instant the eyes of the two men met, and neither doubted the grim purpose of the other.

“You’ve got ter do it, Bob,” announced the marshal, shortly, “dead er alive.”

Hampton never hesitated.  “I ’m sorry I met you.  I don’t want to get anybody else mixed up in this fuss.  If you’ll promise me a chance for my life, Buck, I ’ll throw up my hands.  But I prefer a bullet to a mob.”

The little marshal was sandy-haired, freckle-faced, and all nerve.  He cast one quick glance to left and right.  The crowd jammed within the Occidental had already turned and were surging toward the door; the hotel opposite was beginning to swarm; down the street a throng of men was pouring forth from the Miners’ Retreat, yelling fiercely, while hurrying figures could be distinguished here and there among the scattered buildings, all headed in their direction.  Hampton knew from long experience what this meant; these were the quickly inflamed cohorts of Judge Lynch—­they would act first, and reflect later.  His square jaws set like a trap.

“All right, Bob,” said the marshal.  “You’re my prisoner, and there ’ll be one hell of a fight afore them lads git ye.  There’s a chance left—­leg it after me.”