For through the door stalked a newcomer. He paused and cast a curious eye up the table to Lawlor.
“What the hell!” he remarked naively. “Where’s the chief?”
“Fired!” bellowed Lawlor without a moment of hesitation.
“Who fired him?” asked the new man, with an expectant smile, like one who waits for the point of a joke, but he caught a series of strange signals from men at the table and many a broad wink.
“I fired him, Gregory,” answered Lawlor. “I fired Nash!”
He turned to Bard.
“You see,” he said rather weakly, “the boys is used to callin’ Nash ‘the chief.’”
“Ah, yes,” said Bard, “I understand.”
And Lawlor felt that he did understand, and too well.
Gregory, in the meantime, silenced by the mysterious signs from his fellow cowpunchers, took his place and began eating without another word. No one spoke to him, but as if he caught the tenseness of the situation, his eyes finally turned and glanced up the table to Bard.
It was easy for Anthony to understand that glance. It is the sort of look which the curious turn on the man accused of a great crime and sitting in the court room guilty. His trial in silence had continued until he was found guilty. Apparently, he was now to be both judged and executed at the same time.
There could not be long delay. The entrance of Gregory had almost been the precipitant of action, and though it had been smoothed over to an extent, still the air was each moment more charged with suspense. The men were lighting their second cigarette. With each second it grew clearer that they were waiting for something. And as if thoughtful of the work before them, they no longer talked so fluently.
Finally there was no talk at all, save for sporadic outbursts, and the blue smoke and the brown curled up slowly in undisturbed drifts toward the ceiling until a bright halo formed around the gasoline lamp. A childish thought came to Bard that where the smoke was so thick the fire could not be long delayed.
A second form appeared in the doorway, lithe, graceful, and the light made her hair almost golden.
“Ev’nin’, fellers,” called Sally jauntily. “Hello, Lawlor; what you doin’ at the head of the table?”
CHAPTER XXX
THE LAMP
The bluff was ended. It was as if the wind blew a cloud suddenly from the face of the sun and let the yellow sunlight pour brightly over the world; so everyone in the room at the voice of Sally knew that the time had come for action. There was no vocal answer to her, but each man rose slowly in his place, his gun naked in his hand, and every face was turned to Bard.
“Gentlemen,” he said in his soft voice, “I see that my friend Lawlor has not wasted his lessons in manners. At least you know enough to rise when a lady enters the room.”
His gun, held at the hip, pointed straight down the table to the burly form of Jansen, but his eyes, like those of a pugilist, seemed to be taking in every face at the table, and each man felt in some subtle manner that the danger would fall first on him. They did not answer, but hands were tightening around revolver butts.
Lawlor moved back, pace by pace, his revolver shaking in his hand.
“But,” went on Bard, “you are all facing me. Is it possible?”
He laughed.
“I knew that Mr. Drew was very anxious to receive me with courtesy; I did not dream that he would be able to induce so many men to take care of me.”
And Sally Fortune, bracing herself against the wall with one hand, and in the capable grasp of the other a six-gun balanced, stared in growing amazement on the scene, and shuddered at the silences.
“Bard,” she called, “what have I done?”
“You’ve started a game,” he answered, “which I presume we’ve all been waiting to play. What about it, boys? I hope you’re well paid; I’d hate to die a cheap death.”
A voice, deep and ringing, sounded close at hand, almost within the room, and from a direction which Bard could not locate.
“Don’t harm him if you can help it. But keep him in that room!”
Bard stepped back a pace till his shoulders touched the wall.
“Sirs,” he said, “if you keep me here you will most certainly have to harm me.”
A figure ran around the edge of the crowd and stood beside him.
“Stand clear of me, Sally,” he muttered, much moved. “Stand away. This is a man’s work.”
“The work of a pack of coyotes!” she cried shrilly. “What d’ye mean?”
She turned on them fiercely.
“Are you goin’ to murder a tenderfoot among you? One that ain’t done no real harm? I don’t believe my eyes. You, there, Shorty Kilrain, I’ve waited on you with my own hands. You’ve played the man with me. Are you goin’ to play the dog now? Jansen, you was tellin’ me about a blue-eyed girl in Sweden; have you forgot about her now? And Calamity Ben! My God, ain’t there a man among you to step over here and join the two of us?”
They were shaken, but the memory of Drew quelled them.
“They’s no harm intended him, on my honour, Sally,” said Lawlor. “All he’s got to do is give up his gun—and—and”—he finished weakly—“let his hands be tied.”
“Is that all?” said Sally scornfully.
“Don’t follow me, Sally,” said Bard. “Stay out of this. Boys, you may have been paid high, but I don’t think you’ve been paid high enough to risk taking a chance with me. If you put me out with the first shot that ends it, of course, but the chances are that I’ll be alive when I hit the floor, and if I am, I’ll have my gun working—and I won’t miss. One or two of you are going to drop.”
He surveyed them with a quick glance which seemed to linger on each face.
“I don’t know who’ll go first. But now I’m going to walk straight for that door, and I’m going out of it.”
He moved slowly, deliberately toward the door, around the table. Still they did not shoot.
“Bard!” commanded the voice which had spoken from nowhere before. “Stop where you are. Are you fool enough to think that I’ll let you go?”
“Are you William Drew?”
“I am, and you are—”
“The son of John Bard. Are you in this house?”
“I am; Bard, listen to me for thirty seconds—”
“Not for three. Sally, go out of this room and through that door.”
There was a grim command in his voice. It started her moving against her will. She paused and looked back with an imploring gesture.
“Go on,” he repeated.
And she passed out of the door and stood there, a glimmering figure against the night. Still there was not a shot fired, though all those guns were trained on Bard.
“You’ve got me Drew,” he called, “but I’ve got you, and your hirelings—all of you, and I’m going to take you to hell with me—to hell!”
He jerked his gun up and fired, not at a man, for the bullet struck the thin chain which held the gasoline lamp suspended, struck it with a clang, and it rushed down to the table. It struck, but not with the loud explosion which Bard had expected. There was a dull report, as of a shot fired at a great distance, the scream of Sally from the door, and then liquid fire spurted from the lamp across the table, whipped in a flare to the