“An’ yer won’t give him up?”

“Not in a thousand years, an’ yer might as well save yer breath, Bill, an’ get out.  I’ve told you straight, and I reckon you and your gang know me.  Nobody never told you that Dan Brennan was a quitter, did they?”

“But you blame fool,” and Lacy’s voice plainly indicated his anger.  “You can’t fight this whole camp; we’ll get yer, dead or alive.”

“Yer welcome ter try; I ain’t askin’ no sorter favour; only yer better be blame keerful about it, fer my trigger finger appears ter be almighty nervous ter-day—­drop that!”

His hand shot out like lightning, the blue steel of his revolver flashing.  Lacy flung up his arms, and backed down out of view, but just beyond where he had stood, a gun barked from out the chaparral and a bullet crashed against the rock scarcely a foot from Brennan’s head.  The latter answered it so promptly the two reports sounded almost as one, and then rolled back into shelter, laughing as though the whole affair was a joke.

“One ov Mike’s little tricks,” he chuckled, peering back at the shore, “I know the bark of that old girl.  Hope I pricked him.  That guy used to be a good shot, too, afore he got to drinkin’ so much.  I reckon we’re in fer a siege, Jim.”

Westcott extended his hand.

“It’s mighty white of you, Dan, to stay by me,” he said gravely.  “It’s liable to cost you your job.”

“Ter hell with the job.  I kin earn more in the mines eny day.  I’m not doin’ eny more for you than I would fer eny other galoot in bad.  I wouldn’t let ’em lynch a hoss-thief without givin’ ’em a fight first.  Don’t be givin’ any sympathy ter me.”

“But we haven’t any chance.”

“Well, I don’t know about that now,” and the marshal looked up and down the stream thoughtfully.  “It might be worse.  Look a here, Jim.  I said I’d ‘a’ stayed with yer no matter what yer was guilty of, so long as yer was my prisoner, an’ that’s the gospel truth.  There ain’t a goin’ ter be no lynchin’ in Haskell while I’m marshal, unless them rats get me first.  But this yere case ain’t even that kind.  It’s a put-up job frum the beginnin’ an’ Bill Lacy ain’t a goin’ ter get away with it, as long as I kin either fight er bluff.  This yere fuss ain’t your fault, an’ yer never shot the man either.”

“No.  I didn’t, Dan.  I never fired a gun.”

“I know it; that’s why all hell can’t pry me loose.  I saw most ov the row, an’ I reckon I ain’t so dumb that I can’t catch onto the game what Lacy is tryin’ ter play.  I didn’t hear what you an’ him was talkin’ about, so I don’t know just the cause o’ the rumpus, but the way he played his hand didn’t make no hit with me.”

“You saw what happened?”

“Sure; it didn’t look good ter me, his gittin’ yer ter come ter his place, specially when I knew he wasn’t there alone; so, after ye’d gone in through the saloon, I sasshayed down the alley an’ took a peek in through that rear window.  The tarnation thing is barred up with sheet iron, an’ I couldn’t see much, nor hear a blame word, but I caught on that there was liable ter be a row a fore it was over with.  Through that peep-hole I got sight o’ you, Lacy, an’ that fat feller—­what’s his name?”