“McNamara’s gone, and so’s the marshal and the rest,” he panted.  There was a moment’s silence, and then the leader growled to his men, “Scatter out and rush the house, boys.”  He raised his voice to the man in the window.  “This is your work—­you damned turncoat.”  His followers melted away to right and left, vaulted the fence, and dodged into the shelter of the walls.  The click, click of Glenister’s Winchester sounded through the room while the sweat stood out on him.  He wondered if he could do this deed, if he could really fire on these people.  He wondered if his muscles would not wither and paralyze before they obeyed his command.

Helen crowded past him and, leaning half out of the opening, called loudly, her voice ringing clear and true: 

“Wait!  Wait a moment.  I have something to say.  Mr. Glenister didn’t warn them.  They thought you were going to attack the mines and so they rode out there before midnight.  I am telling you the truth, really.  They left hours ago.”  It was the first sign she had made, and they recognized her to a man.

There were uncertain mutterings below till a new man raised his voice.  Both Roy and Helen recognised Dextry.

“Boys, we’ve overplayed.  We don’t want these people—­McNamara’s our meat.  Old bald-face up yonder has to do what he’s told, and I’m ag’in’ this twenty-to-one midnight work.  I’m goin’ home.”  There were some whisperings, then the original spokesman called for Judge Stillman.  The old man tottered to the window, a palsied, terror-stricken object.  The girl was glad he could not be seen from below.

“We won’t hurt you this time, Judge, but you’ve gone far enough.  We’ll give you another chance, then, if you don’t make good, we’ll stretch you to a lamp-post.  Take this as a warning.”

“I—­s-shall do my d-d-duty,” said the Judge.

The men disappeared into the darkness, and when they had gone Glenister closed the window, pulled down the shades, and lighted a lamp.  He knew by how narrow a margin a tragedy had been averted.  If he had fired on these men his shot would have kindled a feud which would have consumed every vestige of the court crowd and himself among them.  He would have fallen under a false banner, and his life would not have reached to the next sunset.  Perhaps it was forfeit now—­he could not tell.  The Vigilantes would probably look upon his part as traitorous; and, at the very least, he had cut himself off from their support, the only support the Northland offered him.  Henceforth he was a renegade, a pariah, hated alike by both factions.  He purposely avoided sight of Stillman and turned his back when the Judge extended his hand with expressions of gratitude.  His work was done and he wished to leave this house.  Helen followed him down to the door and, as he opened it, laid her hand upon his sleeve.

“Words are feeble things, and I can never make amends for all you’ve done for us.”