Vernon County censor. [volume] (Viroqua, Wis.) 1865-1955, 1917-10-17
tream would never pour through the

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the dam-head and the camp street
were deserted, but there were lights
in the commissary, in the Office shack,
and in Blue Pete Simms' canteen dog
gerry. From the latter quarter sounds
of revelry rose above the spiliway
| thunderings, and now and again
drunken figure lurched through the
open door to make its way uncertain
ly toward the rank of bunk houses.
Harding was staring into the farther
nimbus of the electric rays, trying to
pick up some sign of the other half of
his posse, when Smith made a sug
gestion.
Both Of your parties will have the
wOrkmen's bunk houses in range, Mr..
Harding, and we mustn't forget that
Colonel Baldwin and Williams are
prisoners in the timekeepers shack.
If the guns have to be used"
There won't be any wild shooting,
of the kind you're thinking Of" re-
turned the sheriff grimly. There
amt single man in this posse that
can't hit what he aims at, nine times
out O. ten. But here's hopin' we can
gather 'em in without the guns. If
they amt lookin' for US"
The interruption was the whining
song of jacketed bullet passing over
head, followed by the crack of rife.
Down, boysp' said the sheriff softly,
setting the example by sliding into the
ready-made trench afforded by the dry
ditch of the outlet canal; and as he
said it sharp fusillade broke out,
with fire spurtings from the commits
sary building and others from the
mesa beyond to show that the surprise
was baked in both directions.
"They must have had scouts out"
was Smiths word to the sheriff, who
was cautiously accommodating the new
ly developed situation from the shell
ter of the canal trench. "They are
evidently ready for us, and that knocks
your plan In the head. Your men
can't cross these stagings under fire"
"Your 'wops' are all right, anyway"
said Harding. They're pouring out of
the bunk houses and that saloon over
there and taking to the hills like a
flock o. scared chickens" Then to
his men: Scatter out, boys, and get
the range on that commissary shed.
That's where most of the rustlers are
cached"
Two days earlier, two hours earlier,
perhaps, Smith would have begged a
weapon and flung himself into the
fray with blood lust binding him to
everything save the battle demands of
the moment But now the final mile
stone in the long road of his metamor-
phosis had been passed and the dark
some valley of elemental passions was
left behind.
Hold up a minute. for Gods sake u
he pleaded hastily. "We've got to give
them show, Hardingl The chances
are that every man in that commits
sary believes that M'Graw has the law
on his slde-and we are not sure that
he hasn't. Anyway, they don't know
that they are trying to stand off a
sheriff's posse !"
Harding's chuckle was sardOnic.
'You mean that we'd ought to go over
yonder and read the riot act to 'em
first? That might do back In the
country where you came from. But
the man that can get into that camp
over there with the sery ng papers
now'd have to be armol plated,
reckon"
"Just the same, we've got to give
them their chancew Smith insisted
doggedly. I'VE can't stand for any
unnecessary bloodshed-I won't stand
for it,"
Harding shrugged his heavy Shout
ders. zone round into that sheet-iron
commissary shack'H bring 'em to time
and nothing else will. l hain't got
any men to throw away on the dew
dabs and furbelOws."
Smith sprang up and held out his
hand.
"You have at least one man that
you can spare, Mr.. Harding" he
snapped. "Give me those papers. I'll
go over and serve them"
At this the big sheriff promptly lost
his temper.
"You blamed foOlI" he burst out.
you'd be dOg-meat before you could
get ten feet away from this ditch!"
"Never mind: give me those papers,
I'm not going to stand by quietly and
see q lot of men shot down on the
chance of a misunderstanding
Take 'em, them" rasped Harding,
meaning nothing more than the call
ing of a foolish theorists bluff.
Smith caught at the warrants, and
before anybody could stop him he was
down upon the stagings, swinging him
self from bent TO bent through q storm
of bullets coming. not from the COM
missary, but from the saloon shack
on the opposite bank-a whistling
shower of lead that made every man
in the sheriffs party duck to cover.
How the volunteer prOcess-server
ever lived to get across the bridge of
death no man might know. Thrice in
the half-minute dash he was hit yet
there was life enough left to carry him
stumbling across the last of the stag
ing bents; to send him Keeling up the
runway at the end and across the
working yard to the door of the COM
missary, waving the folded papers like
an inadequate flag of truce as he fell
on the doorstep.
After that. all things were curiously
hazy and underlined for him. There