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This calm, this unnatural calm, was broken one night by Mink himself, who shot and all but killed the livery-stable keeper in a dispute over roulette. Knowing that his deed would bring the new marshal down upon him at once, the gambler immediately declared determined war.

“The man who comes after me will need a wooden overcoat,” he promulgated. “I won’t stand being hounded. That hostler was pulling his gun on me. I got him first, that’s all. It was a fair fight, and everybody knows it.”

The liveryman was, in fact, armed at the time, and the disposition of many citizens was to “let him learn his lesson.” But Judge Pulfoot, fearing Hornaby’s temper, ordered Kelley to get his man.

“Tom wants that weasel disciplined,” he said. “He’s a damage to the community.”

Kelley received his orders with calmness. “Well, Judge,” he said, after a little pause, “I’ll get him, but I’d like to do it in my own way. To go after him just now gives him the inside position. He’ll hear of me the minute I start and will be backed up into the corner somewhere with his gun all poised.”

“Are you afraid?”

“You can call it that,” the young marshal languidly replied. “I don’t believe in taking fool chances. Mink is a dead shot, and probably wire-edged with whisky and expecting me. My plan is to wait until he’s a little off his guard–then go in quick and pull him down.”

To this the judge gave reluctant consent. But when, a few hours later, he heard that Mink had disappeared he was indignant. “You get that devil or we’ll let you out,” he said, and showed a telegram from Hornaby protesting against this new outbreak of violence. “The old man’s red-headed over it.”

“I know it,” said Kelley. “I heard from him to that effect. If the hostler dies we won’t see Mink no more. If he’s in town I’ll get him. Good night.”

III

A few days later, as he was walking up the street, half a dozen men successively spoke to him, saying, “Mink’s at home, loaded–and looking for you!” And each of them grinned as he said it, joyously anticipating trouble.

Without a word, other than a careless, “That so?” Kelley passed on, and a thrill of excitement ran through the hearts of the loafers.

It was about sunset of a dusty autumn afternoon, and the cowboys and miners (gathered in knots along the street), having eaten their suppers, were ready to be entertained. Upon seeing Kelley approach with easy stride they passed the joyous word along. Each spectator was afraid he might miss some part of the play.

Kelley was fully aware that his official career and perhaps his life hung in the balance. To fail of arresting the desperado was to brand himself a bungler and to expose himself to the contempt of other sure-shot ruffians. However, having faced death many times in the desert and on the range, he advanced steadily, apparently undisturbed by the warnings he had received.

Just before reaching Mink’s saloon he stepped into Lemont’s drug-store, a cheap little shop where candy and cigars and other miscellaneous goods were sold. The only person in the place was Rosa Lemont, a slim, little maid of about fifteen years of age.

“Hello, Rosie,” he said, quietly. “I want to slip out your back door.” He smiled meaningly. “The street is a trifle crowded just now.”

With instant comprehension of his meaning she led the way. “Don’t let them kill you,” she whispered, with scared lips.

“I’ll try not to,” he answered, lightly.

Once in the alley, he swung his revolver to a handy spot on his thigh and entered the saloon abruptly from the rear.

The back room, a rude dance-hall, was empty, but the door into the barroom was open, and he slipped through it like a shadow. Mink was not in sight, but the barkeeper stood rigidly on duty.

“Hello, Jack!” called Kelley, as he casually approached the bar. “Where’s the boss?”