Part 25 (1/2)
”Make room there!” he repeated. ”Make room!” and again into the crowd, like a snow-plough into a drift, he penetrated until his momentum was exhausted, then paused for a fresh plunge.
But before him a pathway was forming. Seemingly the thing was impossible, but the trick of a spoken name was sufficient.
”It's Ben Blair!” someone had announced, and others had loudly taken up the cry. ”It's Ben Blair! Let him through!”
Along the pathway thus cleared the youth made his way and approached the centre of activity. Previously the drama had moved swiftly,--so swiftly that the spectators could merely watch developments, but under the interruption it halted. The man at the pony's bridle--cowboy Buck it was--paused, uncertain what to do, doubtful of the intent of the long-faced man who so suddenly had come beside him. Not so Mick Kennedy.
Well he knew what was in store, and reaching over he gave the pony a resounding slap on the flank.
”Let him go, Buck!” he commanded of the cowboy. ”Hurry!”
But already he was too late. With a grip like a trap, Ben's hand was likewise on the rein, holding the little beast, despite his struggles, fairly in his tracks. Ben's head turned, met the bartender's Cyclopean eye squarely, and held it with a look this bulldozer of men had never before received in all his checkered career.
”Mick Kennedy,” he said quietly, ”another move like that, and in five minutes you'll be hanging from the other side.”
For the fraction of a second there was a pause; but, short as it was, the Irishman felt the sweat start. ”The day of such as you has pa.s.sed, Mick Kennedy.”
There was no time for more. As bystanders gather around a street fight, the grim cowmen had closed in from all sides. On the outskirts men mounted each other's shoulders the better to see. Of a sudden, from behind, Ben felt himself grasped by a mult.i.tude of hands. Angry voices sounded in his ears.
”String him up too if he interferes!” suggested one.
”That's the talk!” echoed a third. ”Swing him, too!”
The l.u.s.t of blood was upon the crowd, crying to be satisfied. But they had reckoned wrongly, and were soon to learn their error. Every atom of the long youth's fighting blood was raised to boiling pitch. On the instant, the all but superhuman strength at which we marvel in the insane was his. Like flails, his doubled fists shot out in every direction, meeting resistance at each blow. By the dim light he caught the answering glint on sheath knives, but he took no notice. His hat had come off, and his abundant brown hair shook about his shoulders. His blue eyes blazed. A figure of war incarnate he stood, and a vacant circle which no one cared to cross formed about him. One long hand, with fingers outstretched, was raised above his head. The brilliant eyes searched the surrounding sea of faces for those he knew; as one by one he found them, lingered, conquered. Silence fell intense.
”Men! Gentlemen!” The words went out like pistol-shots reaching every acute ear. ”Listen to me. I've a right to speak. Stop a moment, all of you, and think. This is the twentieth century, not the first. We're in America, free America. Think, I say, think! Don't act blindly! Think!
This man is guilty. We all know it. He's caught red-handed. But he can't escape. Remember this, men, and think! As you value your own self-respect, as you honor the country you live in, don't be savages, don't do this deed you contemplate, this thing you've started doing. Let the law take its course!”
The speaker paused for breath, and, as though fascinated by his audacity or something else, friend and enemy remained motionless and waiting.
Well fitting the drama was its setting: the darkness of night broken by the flickering lanterns; on the pony the huddled helpless figure with a running noose about its neck; the row upon row of rugged faces, of gleaming eyes!
”Ranchers, stockmen!” rushed on the insistent voice, ”you know responsibility; it's to you I'm talking. A principle is at stake here,--the principle of law or of lawlessness. One of these--you know which--has run this range too long; it's gripping us at this moment.
Before we can be free we must call it halt. Let's do it now; don't wait for the next time or the next, but now, now!” Once more he paused, his eyes for the last time making the circle swiftly, his hand in the air, palm forward. ”For law, the law of J. L. Rankin, instead of Judge Lynch!” he challenged. ”For civilization instead of savagery--not to-morrow but now, now! Help me to uphold the law!”
So swiftly that the spectators scarcely realized what he was doing, he stepped over to the limp figure upon the pony, loosed the noose from around the neck, and lifted him to the ground.
”Sheriff Ralston!” he called; ”come and take your prisoner! Russell!
Stetson! Grannis!” designating each by name, ”every man who values life, help me now!”
The cry was the trumpet for action. Instantly every one was in motion.
Again arose the Babel of voices,--voices cursing, arguing, encouraging.
The circle of malevolent faces which had surrounded the youth would not longer be stayed, closed hotly in. He felt the press of their bodies against his, their breath in his face. With an effort, marking his place, the extended right hand went up once more into the air. The slogan again sprang to his tongue.
”For the law of J. L. Rankin, men! The law of--”
The sentence died on his lips. Suddenly, something lightning-like, scorching hot, caught him beneath his right shoulder-blade. Before his eyes the faces, the lighted lanterns, faded into darkness. A sound like falling waters roared in his ears.