The first surmise that jumped into his mind had been correct. Jeff and Lew Minster had broken from jail, been headed off in their flight, and had taken refuge in the post office. There they held the crowd at bay, Jeff taking the front of the building and Lew the rear. Vacant lots surrounded the old frame shack since the general merchandise store burned down three years before, and the rifles of two expert shots commanded this no-man’s-land. It would be night before they could close on the building, but when night came the Minster boys would have an excellent chance of breaking away with darkness to cover them. “What’ll happen?” asked Tony Jeffreys of the blacksmith as they sat at the corner of the hotel where they could survey the whole scene. “I dunno,” said Peter Zinn, as he puffed at his pipe. “I guess it’s up to the constable to show them that he’s a hero. There he is now!” The constable had suddenly dashed out of the door of Sam Donoghue’s house, directly facing the post office, followed by four others, in the hope that he might take the defenders by surprise. But when men defend their lives they are more watchful thar wolves in the hungry winter of the mountains. A Winchester spoke from a window of the post office the moment the forlorn hope appeared. The first bullet knocked the hat from the head of Harry Daniels and stopped him in his tracks. The second shot went wide. The third knocked the feet from under the constable and flattened him in the road. This was more than enough The remnant of the party took to it heels and regained shelter safely before the dust raised by his fall had cease curling above the prostrate body of the constable. Tony Jeffreys had risen to his feel repeating over and over an oath of his childhood: “Jimminy whiskers! Jimminy whiskers! Jimminy whiskers! They’ve killed poor Tom Frejus!” But Peter Zinn, holding the trembling! eager body of Blondy between his hands, jutted forth his head an grinned in a savage warmth of contentment. “He’s overdue!” was all he said. But Tom Frejus was not dead. His leg had been broken between the knee and hip, but he now reared himself upon both hands and looked about him. He had covered the greater part of the road in his charge. It would be easier to escape from fire by crawling close under the shelter of the wall of the post office than by trying to get back to Donoghue’s house. Accordingly, he began to drag himself forward. had not covered a yard when the Winchester cracked again and Tom crumpled on his face, with both arms flung around his head. * * * * *