The boys gave the old fellow the bone-smashing good-fellowship handshake of the mines, and then scattered away to spread the news.

At dawn next morning Wells-Fargo Ferguson and Ham Sandwich called us softly out, and said, privately: 

“That news about the way that old stranger has been treated has spread all around, and the camps are up.  They are piling in from everywhere, and are going to lynch the P’fessor.  Constable Harris is in a dead funk, and has telephoned the sheriff.  Come along!”

We started on a run.  The others were privileged to feel as they chose, but in my heart’s privacy I hoped the sheriff would arrive in time; for I had small desire that Sherlock Holmes should hang for my deeds, as you can easily believe.  I had heard a good deal about the sheriff, but for reassurance’s sake I asked: 

“Can he stop a mob?”

“Can he stop a mob!  Can Jack Fairfax stop a mob!  Well, I should smile!  Ex-desperado—­nineteen scalps on his string.  Can he!  Oh, I say!”

As we tore up the gulch, distant cries and shouts and yells rose faintly on the still air, and grew steadily in strength as we raced along.  Roar after roar burst out, stronger and stronger, nearer and nearer; and at last, when we closed up upon the multitude massed in the open area in front of the tavern, the crash of sound was deafening.  Some brutal roughs from Daly’s gorge had Holmes in their grip, and he was the calmest man there; a contemptuous smile played about his lips, and if any fear of death was in his British heart, his iron personality was master of it and no sign of it was allowed to appear.

“Come to a vote, men!” This from one of the Daly gang, Shadbelly Higgins.  “Quick! is it hang, or shoot?”

“Neither!” shouted one of his comrades.  “He’ll be alive again in a week; burning’s the only permanency for him.”

The gangs from all the outlying camps burst out in a thundercrash of approval, and went struggling and surging toward the prisoner, and closed around him, shouting, “Fire! fire’s the ticket!” They dragged him to the horse-post, backed him against it, chained him to it, and piled wood and pine cones around him waist-deep.  Still the strong face did not blench, and still the scornful smile played about the thin lips.

“A match! fetch a match!”

Shadbelly struck it, shaded it with his hand, stooped, and held it under a pine cone.  A deep silence fell upon the mob.  The cone caught, a tiny flame flickered about it a moment or two.  I seemed to catch the sound of distant hoofs—­it grew more distinct—­still more and more distinct, more and more definite, but the absorbed crowd did not appear to notice it.  The match went out.  The man struck another, stooped, and again the flame rose; this time it took hold and began to spread—­here and there men turned away their faces.  The executioner stood with the charred match in his fingers, watching his work.  The hoof-beats turned a projecting crag, and now they came thundering down upon us.  Almost the next moment there was a shout: