With a crash the door fell, and a black mass of men surged in through the opening, the big bartender leading them, an axe in his hand.  Beaton lay motionless just as he had dropped; Enright was in one corner, dazed, unnerved, a red gash across his forehead, from which blood dripped, the revolver, struck from his fingers, yet smoking on the floor; Westcott, his clothes torn, his face bruised by blows, breathing heavily, went slowly backward, step by step, to the farther wall, conscious of nothing now but the savagely hostile faces of these new enemies.  Lacy, staggering as though drunk, managed to attain his feet, hate, the desire for revenge, yielding him strength.  This was his crowd, and his mind was quick to grasp the opportunity.

“There’s the man who did it,” he shouted, his arm flung out toward Westcott.  “I saw him shoot.  See, that’s his gun lying on the floor.  Don’t let the murderer get away!”

He started forward, an oath on his lips, and the excited crowd surged after, growling anger.  Then the mass of them seemed suddenly rent asunder, and the marshal ploughed his way through heedlessly, his hat gone, and a blue-barrelled gun in either hand.  He swept the muzzle of one of these into the bartender’s face menacingly, his eyes searching the maddened crowd.

“Wait a minute, you,” he commanded sharply.  “I reckon I’ve got something to say ’bout this.  Put down that axe, Mike, or ye’ll never draw another glass o’ beer in this camp.  You know me, lads, an’ I never draw except fer business.  Shut your mouth, Lacy; don’t touch that gun, you fool!  I am in charge here—­this is my job; and if there is going to be any lynching done, it will be after you get me.  Stand back now; all of you—­yes, get out into that barroom.  I mean you, Mike!  This man is my prisoner, and, by God, I’ll defend him.  Ay!  I’ll do more, I’ll let him defend himself.  Here, Westcott, pick up your gun on the floor.  Now stand here with me!  We’re going out through that bunch, and if one of those coyotes puts a paw on you, let him have it.”

The crowd made way, reluctantly enough, growling curses, but with no man among them sufficiently reckless to attempt resistance.  They lacked leadership, for the little marshal never once took his eye off Lacy.  At the door he turned, walking backward, trusting in Westcott to keep their path clear, both levelled revolvers ready for any movement.  He knew Haskell, and he knew the character of these hangers-on at the “Red Dog.”  He realised fully the influence of Bill Lacy, and comprehended that the affair was far from being ended; but just now he had but one object before him—­to get his prisoner safely outside into the open.  Beyond that he would trust to luck, and a fair chance.  His grey eyes were almost black as they gleamed over the levelled revolver barrels, and his clipped moustache fairly bristled.

“Not a step, you!” he muttered.  “What’s the matter, Lacy?  Do you want to die in your tracks?  Mike, all I desire is an excuse to make you the deadest bung-starter in Colorado.  Put down that gun, Carter!  If just one of you lads come through that door, I’ll plug these twelve shots, and you know how I shoot—­Lacy will get the first one, and Mike the second.  Stand there now!  Go on out, Jim; I’m right along with you.”