An ominous confused murmur rose from the direction of the hill, a deep moaning bellow like that of brutes stirring to fury, the note of menace unmistakable. The mob was starting. Here it came in a rushing, crushing mass eastward through Fifth Street. It surrounded the Oriental. A yell went up like a rocket—“He’s in the bowling alley.” With a roar, the mob turned for the rush to the bowling alley. As it changed front, it came face to face with Wyatt Earp at a distance of twenty paces. He stood alone in the middle of Allen Street, a double-barrelled shotgun resting in the crook of his elbow.
“Hold on, boys.” Wyatt Earp raised his hand and for a moment kept it poised in air. “Don’t make any fool play. There ain’t no sense in this.”
The mob halted in its forward sweep.
“Where’ve you got that murdering rat hid?”
“He’s right in there.” Wyatt Earp jerked his thumb at the bowling alley. “And he’s going to stay in there. He’s my prisoner now, and you fellers ain’t goin’ to get him.”
“The hell we ain’t.”
“You boys better disperse.” Wyatt Earp said it as calmly as he might have said “Tut-tut” to naughty urchins in school. “Go on home. Go on back to work. I’m here to take care of this prisoner. And I’m going to take care of him.”
The silence was shattered by sudden fierce yells.
“Ki-yi-ki-yi-yip!”
“Wa-wa-wa-wa—wa-hoo!”
The shrieks were broken into wild staccato by tapping the mouth with the hand. There were old Apache fighters in that crowd. The front ranks began to stamp up and down like savages doing a war dance.
“Here we go, boys.”
“Smash in the bowling alley.”
“String the dirty varmint to a telegraph pole.”
Wyatt Earp cocked both barrels of his shotgun.
“Come on, then, you yellow curs. Let’s see you get him.”
His booming voice was like the roar of a lion at bay as he flung the challenge in the mob’s teeth. Again the crowd stood still in wavering indecision.
One foot advanced, his shotgun held tensely across his breast ready for instant action, Wyatt Earp stood, one man against five hundred. Grimly alone. Hopelessly isolated for the moment from all the rest of the world. No help to fall back on, no chance to run, no shelter, no place of refuge. Just a man out there in the middle of the street, all by himself with only his own strength to depend on and only his own courage to save him. Before him a mob thirsting for blood, closing in for the kill, its victim almost within reach. The front line, stretching across the street from wall to wall, bristled with six-shooters and rifles, every face twisted and flaming with passion. One solitary man blocked the road to vengeance.
“That fool’s bluffing.” The shout was vibrant with impatient resentment. “Call his bluff and watch him quit.”
Wyatt Earp brought his shotgun to his shoulder with a snap. At the level of a man’s heart, he swung its muzzle very slowly across the crowd from one side of the street to the other and very slowly back again.
“Don’t make any mistake,” he flung back. “I’ll blow the belly off of the first man that makes a move.”
The storm was working to the bursting point. This was ridiculous. One man hold back five hundred? Rush him, disarm him, brush him aside.
“What’s the matter out there in front?”
“Go on!”
The men behind began to push and shoulder forward. Flickering waves of movement told of gathering momentum for a fresh start. A powerful thrust made the front ranks bend and sway. It was like a ripple presaging the final rush.
“Kill him!”
Wyatt Earp’s jaws set. His eyes blazed. His face in that tense moment was so marble-white that his tawny moustache looked black against it. Again he swept the crowd with his levelled gun, and death lurked in the black depths of those twin muzzles.
“Kill me.” His voice had a conversational steadiness. “I’m ready. Ought to be easy; there are enough of you. But I’ll do a little killing myself. You can get me; but I’ll take a few of you to hell with me.”
The drama had rushed to crisis. Here was a proposition. They could take it or leave it. He was ready to die. If they were, too, all right. Yes, they could kill him. One shot would do the business. They couldn’t miss him. But he would take some of them to the grave with him. He might get two or three. Or half a dozen might crumple down under the scattering double charge of buckshot. It was sure death for some of them. Did they want to gamble? Were they willing to take the chance?
Well?
Silence fell. For a space the mob stood motionless, hesitating, undecided, weighing the odds. Then abruptly the tension snapped. Some men in front, looking a little sheepish, drew back into the crowd. Others followed. The front line grew ragged; it was breaking up. Not much sense, after all, in getting killed for a dirty little blackguard like Johnny Behind-the-Deuce. The law might hang him anyhow. This lynching business was pretty wild and crazy if you stopped to think about it. Just as well to let the law take its course. Men at the outer edges began to walk away. Gaps and lanes opened in the thinning ranks. Throngs began to bustle through the side streets like flood waters draining off through sluiceways. Soon all had disappeared except a few small groups that still hung about the corner. The storm had passed; peaceful sunlight once more bathed the empty streets. Wyatt Earp, leaning on his shotgun, stood in silence and watched the mob melt away. Then he stepped with an air of leisureliness over to the
