“On your way!” thundered Craig, for he was conscious that many eyes were upon him. Two formidable figures appeared on either side of him. They were Maurie Gordon, black of face with wrath, and Dave Carey, his lip lifted from his teeth like a wolf about to snarl. They were three formidable animals, facing the swaying figure of Harry. When men act under the eyes of a woman, the careful veil of civilization is lifted. The lovely Miss Silvestre was nearby. The three became ravening beasts. “Out with him!” said Dave Carey. “Move!” said Maurie. “Start!” said Ben Craig. But the same thing that made the hair of Jacqueline red made the blood of Harry hot. “I’ll see you damned first,” he said thickly. Instantly six iron hands gripped him. He was whirled, and, struggling vainly, borne across the floor toward the door. A universal clapping of hands came from the edges of the hall. It was understood that Harry had insulted the lovely stranger, and in the West, a woman, whether beautiful or ugly, _may_ be treated with familiar words but _must_ be treated with reverent thought. At the very threshold of the door that led from the main hall into the little anteroom where guns and hats were piled, Harry managed to wriggle loose. The fury of his anger was sobering him a little and restoring the nerves to his muscular control. He broke loose with a curse and swung feebly, uncertainly, at the nearest of his prosecutors. Carey and Craig ducked to rush and grapple with Harry; but big Maurie, with the thought of Miss Silvestre and “real men” floating in his brain, drew back his sledge-hammer right fist and smashed it into the face of young During. Harry pitched back through the door as if a dozen hands had thrown him. The three turned and made straight for Jac like three little boys returning to their mother for praise due to a virtuous act after a day of naughtiness and spankings. The women around the hall were silent. They had heard the dull thud as that fist drove home. The men applauded the murmurs. It was the custom to applaud Maurie Gordon. But when the three reached Jac, she sat white of face and still of eye. “This don’t happen often,” began Carey. “I never see anything like it before,” added Craig. “Anyway,” said Maurie complacently, “I’ve taught him a lesson.” A hard voice sounded at his shoulder. He turned to stare into the furious eyes of Carrigan. There was nothing bulky about the latter, but now, with his lean, almost ugly face white with anger and his gleaming eye, he seemed strangely dangerous. CHAPTER VIII. THE THREE MUSKETEERS. “Gordon,” he said, “you need a lesson yourself.” Maurie stepped back. “What’s eatin’ you?” he frowned. “You hit him when he couldn’t hardly raise a hand,” snapped Carrigan. There was no mistaking it. He meant fight. It shone in his eyes like hunger. It tensed his muscles till he seemed crouching to spring like some beast of prey. “Please!” cried Jac, and stepped in between them.