Ben released his gaze.

“The others are here too?”

“No, they’re all at the ranch.  Graham and I attended to that.”

“I just saw Russell and Stetson.  They couldn’t possibly have got here to-day from home.  Has—­has this been planned?”

Grannis nodded.  “Yes.  Kennedy and his gang have been watching here and at the ranch for days.  They thought you’d show up at one place or the other.  The whole country is out.  There are lots of strangers here, from ranches I never heard of before.  Seems as though everybody knew Rankin and heard of his being shot.  You’d better let them have it their way.  It’ll amount to the same in the end, and death itself couldn’t stop them now.”

He took a step forward; for Ben, understanding all, had at last moved on.

“Blair!” he called after him, again extending a detaining hand.  His voice took on a new note—­intimate, personal, a tone of which no one would have thought it capable.  “Blair, listen to me!  Stop!”

But he might as well have spoken to the swiftly flowing water beneath the ice of the great river.  Of a sudden, from out a passage leading into the cell-room of the court-house basement, a black swarm of men had emerged, bearing by sheer animal force a struggling object in their midst.  The silence of those who waited, the lull before the storm, on the instant ended.  A very Babel of voices took its place.  By common consent, as though drawn by centripetal force, actors and spectators crowded together until they were a solid block of humanity.  Caught in the midst, Grannis and Ben alike could for a moment but move with the mass.  So fierce was the crush that their very breath seemed imprisoned in their lungs.

Like molten metal the crowd began to flow—­to the right, in the direction of the railroad track.  With each passing moment the confusion was, if possible, greater than before.  Here and there a cowboy, unable to control his excess of feeling, emptied his revolver into the air.  Once Ben heard the wailing yelp of a dog caught under foot of the mass.  To his left, a little man with a white collar, obviously a mere spectator, pleaded loudly to be released from the pressure.  Adding to the confusion, the bell on the town-hall began ringing furiously.

On they went, a hundred yards, two hundred, reached the railroad track, stopped.  In the midst of the leaders, looming over their heads, was a whitened telegraph pole.  Of a sudden a lariat shot up over the painted cross-arm, and dropped, the two ends dangling free; and, understanding it all, the spectators again became silent.  Everything moved like clockwork.  From somewhere in the darkness a bare-backed pony was produced and brought directly under the dangling rope.  Astride him a dark-bearded figure with hands tied behind his back was placed and firmly held.  Swiftly a running noose, fashioned from the ends of the lariat, was slipped over the captive’s neck.  A man grasped the bit of the mustang.  Before him, the crowd began to give way.  The great bull-necked leader—­Mick Kennedy, every one now saw it was—­held up his hand for silence, and turned to the helpless figure astride the pony.