THE INTERVENTION OF SWANSON Hayes never changed his position, nor removed his eyes from Winston, his right hand still resting upon the butt of his "45," his lips set in rigid line.

The engineer, the mist partially clearing from his brain, retained no thought except for Farnham, who remained motionless, staring over his head into the black, threatening muzzle of Stutter Brown's levelled gun.

These were Western men; they recognized instantly the potency of "the drop," the absolute certainty of death if they stirred a muscle.

They could only wait, breathless, uncertain, the next move in this desperate game.

To Winston it seemed an hour he hesitated, his mind a chaos, temptation buffeting him remorselessly.
He saw the sheriff's face set hard, and resolute behind its iron-gray beard; he marked the reckless sneer curling Farnham's lips, the livid mark under his eye where he had struck him.