corralled all night, as Nick sez . . . fwhy! . . . that let's Windy out."

He was silent awhile, then: "That harse av Windy's," he burst out with an
oath, "I thought 't'was a cinch. Somethin' passin' rum 'bout all this.
There's abs'lutely no mistake 'bout th' harse. Somebody in this
god-forsaken burg must ha' used him tu du th' killin' wid. Well, let's
get on."

Suddenly, as they neared the hotel, a veritable bedlam of sound fell upon
their ears, apparently from inside that hostelry--men shouting, a dog
barking, and above all the screeching, crazed voice of a drunken man.

The startled policemen dashed into the front entrance, through the office
and across the passage into the bar beyond, from whence the uproar
proceeded.

"Help! Murder! Pleece!" some apparently high-strung individual was
bawling. A ludicrous, but nevertheless dangerous, sight met their eyes.

A motley crowd, composed mainly of well-dressed passengers from off the
temporarily-stalled West-bound train and a sprinkling of townsfolk, were
backed--hands up--into a corner of the bar by a big, hard-faced man clad
in range attire who was menacing them with a long-barrelled revolver. He
was dark-haired and swarthy, with sinister, glittering eyes. One
red-headed, red-nosed individual had apparently resented parting with the
drink that he had paid for; as in one decidedly-shaky elevated hand he
still clutched his glass, its whiskey and water contents slopping down
the neck of his nearest unfortunate neighbour.

"Mon!" he apologized, in tearful accents, "Ah juist canna help it!"