On the morning after the episode in the Northern, Glenister awoke under a weight of discouragement and desolation.  The past twenty-four hours with their manifold experiences seemed distant and unreal.  At breakfast he was ashamed to tell Dextry of the gambling debauch, for he had dealt treacherously with the old man in risking half of the mine, even though they had agreed that either might do as he chose with his interest, regardless of the other.  It all seemed like a nightmare, those tense moments when he lay above the receiver’s office and felt his belief in the one woman slipping away, the frenzied thirst which Cherry Malotte had checked, the senseless, unreasoning lust for play that possessed him later.  This lapse was the last stand of his old, untamed instincts.  The embers of revolt in him were dead.  He felt that he would never again lose mastery of himself, that his passions would never best him hereafter.

Dextry spoke.  “We had a meeting of the ‘Stranglers’ last night.”  He always spoke of the Vigilantes in that way, because of his early Western training.

“What was done?”

“They decided to act quick and do any odd jobs of lynchin’, claim-jumpin’, or such as needs doin’.  There’s a lot of law sharps and storekeepers in the bunch who figure McNamara’s gang will wipe them off the map next.”

“It was bound to come to this.”

“They talked of ejectin’ the receiver’s men and puttin’ all us fellers back on our mines.”

“Good.  How many can we count on to help us?”

“About sixty.  We’ve kept the number down, and only taken men with so much property that they’ll have to keep their mouths shut.”

“I wish we might engineer some kind of an encounter with the court crowd and create such an uproar that it would reach Washington.  Everything else has failed, and our last chance seems to be for the government to step in; that is, unless Bill Wheaton can do something with the California courts.”

“I don’t count on him.  McNamara don’t care for California courts no more ’n he would for a boy with a pea-shooter—­he’s got too much pull at headquarters.  If the ‘Stranglers’ don’t do no good, we’d better go in an’ clean out the bunch like we was killin’ snakes.  If that fails, I’m goin’ out to the States an’ be a doctor.”

“A doctor?  What for?”

“I read somewhere that in the United States every year there is forty million gallons of whiskey used for medical purposes.”

Glenister laughed.  “Speaking of whiskey, Dex—­I notice that you’ve been drinking pretty hard of late—­that is, hard for you.”

The old man shook his head.  “You’re mistaken.  It ain’t hard for me.”

“Well, hard or easy, you’d better cut it out.”

It was some time later that one of the detectives employed by the Swedes met Glenister on Front Street, and by an almost imperceptible sign signified his desire to speak with him.  When they were alone he said: