Peering through the chinks, the besieged could descry a sea of threatening faces, savagely hideous in the red torchlight. Prominent among these was a man who held a noosed cord. Hither and thither he moved, stirring up the crowd, his sinister features distorted with malicious rage. Hatred, envy, disappointed greed, all were depicted there, as with blood-curdling threats the mob clamoured for the object of its resentment. Suddenly a clatter of approaching hoofs became audible alike to besiegers and besieged. The crowd paused aghast, the first thought being that of an Indian attack. Then a score of horsemen darted into the light, and a ringing voice was heard inquiring-- "Say, boys, what in thunder's all this muss?" "That's the sheriff," said Smokestack Bill, coolly, lowering his revolver. "We're out of this fix, anyhow." A roar was the answer. "The white Injun! The pizen white Injun! We're going to lynch him." "I guess not," was the reply. "Not while Nat Hardroper's sheriff of Henniker City. When it comes to reckoning with that invaluable officer, Judge Lynch'll have to take a back seat. Eh, boys?" turning to his well-armed followers, a score of cowboys and well-disposed citizens, whom he had prudently collected in haste on receiving the first intimation of a riot. "That's so, sheriff," was the prompt reply. "Say, Dan Harper," called out the sheriff, "Judge Lynch's sittin' in the State you've just left. Why not go and talk to him there?" The face of the fellow named blanched at this allusion. Meanwhile the crowd, composed mainly as it was of ruffians and bullies, began to show a disposition to slink off, in the presence of these well-armed and determined representatives of law and order. "Never mind, boys," shouted someone. "We'll plant him full of lead yet. Now let's git." "How do, sheriff?" said the scout, calmly stepping forth with extended hand. "Guess you've raised the siege on us right slick in the nick of time." "How do, Bill? How do, colonel?" to Vipan. "Now you come right along to my log and we'll talk." "Hold hard, friends," objected Vipan. "We've got to drink first. Murphy, bring out the juice." "Whurroo, sheriff darlint," chuckled the saloon-keeper. "Whurroo! but it's purty shootin' there's bin around here afure you came. Be jabers! and thur'll be a big inquist to-morrow, and the power of the `crame' 'll be on hand for the jewry, I reckon. Bedad! and whur's that shuck-faced omadhaun?" he added, gazing at the corner. For Bitter Rube, having recovered his confused senses, had profited by the confusion to steal away unperceived.