Judge Stillman shouted, hysterically: 

“Arrest that man, quick!  Don’t let him go!”

It was the miner’s first realization that others were there.  Raising his head he stared at the faces close against the partition, then groaned the words: 

“I beat the traitor and—­and—­I broke him with—­my hands!”

CHAPTER XXII

THE PROMISE OF DREAMS

Soldiers seized the young man, who made no offer at resistance, and the room became a noisy riot.  Crowds surged up from below, clamoring, questioning, till some one at the head of the stairs shouted down: 

“They’ve got Roy Glenister.  He’s killed McNamara,” at which a murmur arose that threatened to become a cheer.

Then one of the receiver’s faction called:  “Let’s hang him.  He killed ten of our men last night.”  Helen winced, but Stillman, roused to a sort of malevolent courage, quieted the angry voices.

“Officer, hold these people back.  I’ll attend to this man.  The law’s in my hands and I’ll make him answer.”

McNamara reared himself groaning from the floor, his right arm swinging from the shoulder strangely loose and distorted, with palm twisted outward, while his battered face was hideous with pain and defeat.  He growled broken maledictions at his enemy.

Roy, meanwhile, said nothing, for as the savage lust died in him he realized that the whirling faces before him were the faces of his enemies, that the Bronco Kid was still at large, and that his vengeance was but half completed.  His knees were bending, his limbs were like leaden bars, his chest a furnace of coals.  As he reeled down the lane of human forms, supported by his guards, he came abreast of the girl and her companion and paused, clearing his vision slowly.

“Ah, there you are!” he said, thickly, to the gambler, and began to wrestle with his captors, baring his teeth in a grimace of painful effort; but they held him as easily as though he were a child and drew him forward, his body sagging limply, his face turned back over his shoulder.

They had him near the door when Wheaton barred their way, crying:  “Hold up a minute—­it’s all right, Roy—­”

“Ay, Bill—­it’s all right.  We did our—­best, but we were done by a damned blackguard.  Now he’ll send me up—­but I don’t care.  I broke him—­with my naked hands.  Didn’t I, McNamara?” He mocked unsteadily at the boss, who cursed aloud in return, glowering like an evil mask, while Stillman ran up dishevelled and shrilly irascible.

“Take him away, I tell you!  Take him to jail.”

But Wheaton held his place while the room centred its eyes upon him, scenting some unexpected denouement.  He saw it, and in concession to a natural vanity and dramatic instinct, he threw back his head and stuffed his hands into his coat-pockets while the crowd waited.  He grinned insolently at the Judge and the receiver.