Mason spat into the dump contemptuously, his hands thrust into his pockets.  “You ‘re a fine-lookin’ lot o’ law-abidin’ citizens, you are!  Blamed if you ain’t.  Why, I wouldn’t give a snap of my fingers fer the whole kit and caboodle of ye, you low-down, sneakin’ parcel o’ thieves.  Ye say it wus yer votes whut made me marshal o’ this camp.  Well, I reckon they did, an’ I reckon likewise I know ’bout whut my duty under the law is, an’ I’m a-goin’ to do it.  If you fellers thought ye ’lected a chump, this is the time you git left.  This yere man, Bob Hampton, is my prisoner, an’ I’ll take him to Cheyenne, if I have ter brain every tough in Glencaid to do it.  Thet’s me, gents.”

“Oh, come off; you can’t run your notions agin the whole blame moral sentiment of this camp.”

“Moral sentiment!  I ‘m backin’ up the law, not moral sentiment, ye cross-eyed beer-slinger, an’ if ye try edgin’ up ther another step I ’ll plug you with this ‘45.’”

There was a minute of hesitancy while the men below conferred, the marshal looking contemptuously down upon them, his revolver gleaming ominously in the light.  Evidently the group hated to go back without the prisoner.

“Oh, come on, Buck, show a little hoss sense,” the leader sang out.  “We ‘ve got every feller in camp along with us, an’ there ain’t no show fer the two o’ ye to hold out against that sort of an outfit.”

Mason smiled and patted the barrel of his Colt.

“Oh, go to blazes!  When I want any advice, Jimmie, I’ll send fer ye.”

Some one fired, the ball digging up the soft earth at the marshal’s feet, and flinging it in a blinding cloud into Hampton’s eyes.  Mason’s answer was a sudden fusilade, which sent the crowd flying helter-skelter into the underbrush.  One among them staggered and half fell, yet succeeded in dragging himself out of sight.

“Great Scott, if I don’t believe I winged James!” the shooter remarked cheerfully, reaching back into his pocket for more cartridges.  “Maybe them boys will be a bit more keerful if they once onderstand they ’re up agin the real thing.  Well, perhaps I better skin down, fer I reckon it’s liable ter be rifles next.”

It was rifles next, and the “winging” of Big Jim, however it may have inspired caution, also developed fresh animosity in the hearts of his followers, and brought forth evidences of discipline in their approach.  Peering across the sheltering dump pile, the besieged were able to perceive the dark figures cautiously advancing through the protecting brush; they spread out widely until their two flanks were close in against the wall of rock, and then the deadly rifles began to spit spitefully, the balls casting up the soft dirt in clouds or flattening against the stones.  The two men crouched lower, hugging their pile of slag, unable to perceive even a stray assailant within range of their ready revolvers.  Hampton remained cool, alert, and motionless, striving in vain to discover some means of escape, but the little marshal kept grimly cheerful, creeping constantly from point to point in the endeavor to get a return shot at his tormentors.