“By God!  I hope we get him,” flamed Grover.  “He ought to be hung, anyway.  He killed his wife and burned up the body, they say, before he left!”

“Someone must call for Rankin and Ben,” suggested another, “Ben particularly.  He ought to be there at the finish.  Lord knows he’s got grudge enough.”

“We’ll let him pull the trap,” broke in Stetson grimly.

Of a sudden above the confusion there sounded a snarl, almost like the cry of an animal.  Surprised, for the moment silenced, the men turned in the direction whence it had come.

“Rankin!” It was Mick Kennedy who spoke, but it was Mick transformed.  “Rankin!” The great veins of the bartender’s neck swelled; the red face congested until it became all but purple.  “No!  We won’t go near him!  He’d put a stop to the whole thing.  What we want is men, not cowards!”

A moment only the silence lasted.  “All right,” agreed Stetson.  “Have another, boys!  We’ll drop Rankin!”

Anew, louder than before, broke forth the confusion.  The games of a short time ago were forgotten.  A heap of coin lay on the shelf behind the bar where Mick, the banker, had placed it; but winner and loser alike ignored its existence.  The savage, ever so near the surface of these rough frontiersmen, had taken complete possession of them.  Drop Rankin—­forget civilization—­ignore the slow practices of law and order!

“Come on!” someone yelled.  “We’re enough to do the business.  To the river!”

Instantly the crowd burst through the single front door.  Momentarily there followed a lull, while in the half darkness each rider found his mount.  Then sounded an “All ready!” from cowboy Buck, first in motion, a straining of leather, a swish of quirts, a grunting of ponies as the spurs dug into their flanks, a rush of leaping feet, a wild medley of yells, and westward across the prairie, beneath the stars, there passed a swiftly moving black shadow that grew momentarily lighter, and back from which came a patter, patter, patter, that grew softer and softer; until at last over the old saloon and its companion store fell silence absolute.

It was 10:28 when they left Kennedy’s place.  It was 12:36 when, without having for a moment stopped their long swinging gallop, they pulled up at the “Lone Buffalo” ranch, twenty-five miles away, and the last ranch before they reached the river.  The house was dark and silent as the grave at their approach; but it did not remain so long.  The display of fireworks with which they illumined the night would have done credit to an Independence Day celebration.  The yells which accompanied it were hair-raising as the shrieks from a band of maniacs.  Instantly lights began to burn, and the proprietor himself, Grey—­a long Southerner with an imperial—­came rushing to the door, a revolver in either hand.