Dale drew a deep breath, and the men in the group behind him watched him narrowly.
But just when it seemed that decisive action in one direction or another must he taken, there came an interruption.
Behind Sanderson--from one of the windows of the ranchhouse--came a hoarse curse.
Sanderson saw Dale's eyes dilate; he saw the faces of the men in the group of riders change color; he saw their hands go slowly upward.
Dale, too, raised his hands.
Glancing swiftly over his shoulder, Sanderson saw Barney Owen at one of the windows.

He was inside the house, his arms were resting on the window-sill.

He was kneeling, and in his hands was a rifle, the muzzle covering Dale and the men who had come with him.
Owen's face was chalk white and working with demoniac passion.

His eyes were wild, and blazing with a wanton malignancy that awed every man who looked at him--Sanderson included.

His teeth were bared in a horrible snarl; the man was like some wild animal--worse, the savage, primitive passions of him were unleashed and rampant, directed by a reasoning intelligence.