The sergeant remained silent, breathing thickly and glaring at his
prisoner with sinister, glittering eyes, and still retaining the latter's
wrist in his iron grip. But eventually the force of Yorke's reasoning
prevailed with him. Drawing out his hand-cuffs he snapped them on the
man's wrists and haled him roughly out of the bar into the hotel office.
The crowd, recovering somewhat from their scare, would have followed, but
he curtly ordered them back and closed the door.

"Brophy!" He beckoned the angry, frightened hotel-proprietor forward.
"Is Bob Ingalls and Chuck Reed still in town?"

"Sure!" replied the latter, "They was both in here 'bout half an hour
ago, anyways."

Slavin turned to Yorke. "Go yu an' hunt up thim fellers an' bring thim
here!" he ordered.

"Ravin'--clean bug-house! that's what he is!" wailed Brophy. "That bar
o' mine! oh, Lord! Yu'll git it soaked to yu' this time, Windy, an'
don't yu' furgit it!"

The prisoner paid no attention to the landlord's revilings. Slumped down
in a chair he had relapsed into a sort of sulky stupor, though he cringed
visibly whenever Slavin bent on him his thoughtful, sinister gaze.

Presently Yorke returned, bringing with him two respectable-looking men,
apparently ranchers, from their appearance.

Slavin nodded familiarly to them. "Ingalls!" he addressed one of them
"I'm given tu undhershtand that yuh an' Chuck Reed there tuk charge av