challenge the mob.
'What do you want?'
'We aim to try your prisoner!' shouted the leader. 'We come in the due process of law. We've app'inted a jedge and paneled a jury, and we demands that you hand over the prisoner to be tried in miners' court, accordin' to legal precedent!'
'How do I know you're representative of the camp?' parried McNab.
''Cause we're the only body of men in camp right now!' yelled someone, and this was greeted by a roar of laughter.
'We come empowered with the proper authority--' began the leader, and broke off suddenly: 'Grab him, boys!'
There was the sound of a brief scuffle, McNab swore vigorously, and the leader's voice rose triumphantly: 'Let go of him, boys, but don't give him his gun. McNab, you ought to know better'n to try to oppose legal procedure, and you a upholder of law and order!'
Again a roar of sardonic laughter, and McNab growled: 'All right; go ahead with the trial. But you do it over my protests. I don't believe this is a representative assembly.'
'Yes, it is,' averred the leader, and then his voice thickened with blood-lust. 'Now, Daley, gimme that key and bring out the prisoner.'
The mob surged toward the door of the jail, and at that instant Corcoran stepped around the corner of the cabin and leaped up on the low porch it boasted. There was a hissing intake of breath. Men halted suddenly, digging their heels against the pressure behind them. The surging line wavered backward, leaving two figures isolated-- McNab, scowling, disarmed, and a hairy giant whose huge belly was girt with a broad belt bristling with gun butts and knife hilts. He held a noose in one hand, and his bearded lips gaped as he glared at the unexpected apparition.
For a breathless instant Corcoran did not speak. He did not look at McBride's pallid countenance peering through the barred door behind him. He stood facing the mob, his head slightly bent, a somber, immobile figure, sinister with menace.
'Well,' he said finally, softly, 'what's holdin' up the baile?'
The leader blustered feebly.
'We come here to try a murderer!'
Corcoran lifted his head and the man involuntarily recoiled at the lethal glitter of his eyes.
'Who's your judge?' the Texan inquired softly.
'We appointed Jake Bissett, there,' spoke up a man, pointing at the uncomfortable giant on the porch.
'So you're goin' to hold a miners' court,' murmured Corcoran. 'With a judge and jury picked out of the dives and honky-tonks--scum and dirt of the gutter!' And suddenly uncontrollable fury flamed in his eyes. Bissett, sensing his intention, bellowed in ox-like alarm and grabbed frantically at a gun. His fingers had scarcely touched the checkered butt when smoke and flame roared from Corcoran's right hip. Bissett pitched backward off the porch as if he had been struck by a hammer; the rope tangled about his limbs as he fell, and he lay in the dust that slowly turned crimson, his hairy fingers twitching spasmodically.
Corcoran faced the mob, livid under his sun-burnt bronze. His eyes were coals of blue hell's-fire. There was a gun in each hand, and from the right-hand muzzle a wisp of blue smoke drifted lazily upward.
'I declare this court adjourned!' he roared. 'The judge is done impeached, and the jury's discharged! I'll give you thirty seconds to clear the courtroom!'
He was one man against nearly a hundred, but he was a grey wolf facing a pack of yapping jackals. Each man knew that if the mob surged on him, they would drag him down at last; but each man knew what an awful toll would first be paid, and each man feared that he himself would be one of those to pay that toll.
They hesitated, stumbled back--gave way suddenly and scattered in all directions. Some backed away, some shamelessly turned their backs and fled. With a snarl Corcoran thrust his guns back in their scabbards and turned toward the door where McBride stood, grasping the bars.
'I thought I was a goner that time, Corcoran,' he gasped. The Texan pulled the door open, and pushed McBride's pistol into his hand.
'There's a horse tied behind the jail,' said Corcoran. 'Get on it and dust out of here. I'll take the full responsibility. If you stay here they'll burn down the jail, or shoot you through the window. You can make it out of town while they're scattered. I'll explain to Middleton and Hopkins. In a month or so, if you want to, come back and stand trial, as a matter of formality. Things will be cleaned up around here by then.'
McBride needed no urging. The grisly fate he had just escaped had shaken his nerve. Shaking Corcoran's hand passionately, he ran stumblingly through the trees to the horse Corcoran had left there. A few moments later he was fogging it out of the Gulch.
McNab came up, scowling and grumbling.
'You had no authority to let him go. I tried to stop the mob--'
Corcoran wheeled and faced him, making no attempt to conceal his hatred.
'You did like hell! Don't pull that stuff with me, McNab. You was in on this, and so was Middleton. You put up a bluff of talk, so afterwards you could tell Colonel Hopkins and the others that you tried to stop the lynchin' and was overpowered. I saw the scrap you put up when they grabbed you! Hell! You're a rotten actor.'
'You can't talk to me like that!' roared McNab.
The old tigerish light flickered in the blue eyes. Corcoran did not exactly move, yet he seemed to sink into a half-crouch, as a cougar does for the killing spring.
'If you don't like my style, McNab,' he said softly, thickly, 'you're more'n welcome to open the baile whenever you get ready!'
For an instant they faced each other, McNab black browed and scowling, Corcoran's thin lips almost smiling, but blue fire lighting his eyes. Then with a grunt McNab turned and slouched away, his shaggy head swaying from side to side like that of a surly bull.
Chapter 7 A Vulture's Wings Are Clipped
Middleton pulled up his horse suddenly as Corcoran reined out of the bushes. One glance showed the sheriff that Corcoran's mood was far from placid. They were amidst a grove of alders, perhaps a mile from the Gulch.
'Why, hello, Corcoran,' began Middleton, concealing his surprise. 'I caught up with Brockman. It was just a wild rumor. He didn't have any gold. That--'
'Drop it!' snapped Corcoran. 'I know why you sent me off on that wild-goose chase--same reason you pulled out of town. To give Brent's friends a chance to get even with McBride. If I hadn't turned around and dusted back into Whapeton, McBride would be kickin' his life out at the end of a rope, right now.'
'You came back--?'
'Yeah! And now Jake Bissett's in Hell instead of Jack McBride, and McBride's dusted out--on a horse I gave him. I told you I gave him my word he wouldn't be lynched.'
'You killed Bissett?'
'Deader'n hell!'
'He was a Vulture,' muttered Middleton, but he did not seem displeased. 'Brent, Bissett--the more Vultures die, the easier it will be for us to get away when we go. That's one reason I had Brent killed. But you should have let them hang McBride. Of course I framed this affair; I had to do something to satisfy Brent's friends. Otherwise they might have gotten suspicious.
'If they suspicioned I had anything to do with having him killed, or thought I wasn't anxious to punish the man who killed him, they'd make trouble for me. I can't have a split in the gang now. And even I can't protect you from Brent's friends, after this.'
'Have I ever asked you, or any man, for protection?' The quick jealous pride of the gunfighter vibrated in his voice.
'Breckman, Red Bill, Curly, and now Bissett. You've killed too many Vultures. I made them think the killing of the first three was a mistake, all around. Bissett wasn't very popular. But they won't forgive you for stopping them from hanging the man who killed Ace Brent. They won't attack you openly, of course. But you'll have to watch every step you make. They'll kill you if they can, and I won't be able to prevent them.'
'If I'd tell 'em just how Ace Brent died, you'd be in the same boat,' said Corcoran bitingly. 'Of course, I won't. Our final getaway depends on you keepin' their confidence--as well as the confidence of the honest folks.
