"I am you," said Laguerre, and slid through a rear window. Loudon followed. They hastened along the rear of the line of houses and crouched beneath the windowsill of a small two-room shack at the end of the street. There were sounds of a hot discussion in progress in the front room. "Guess he's home!" whispered Loudon. "Might as well go in." Gently they opened the back door, and very quietly they tiptoed across the floor of the back room to a closed door. "We've got to hurry," a voice was saying. "Shore," said the voice of Sheriff Block. "You three cover 'em through the back window when me an' the rest come in the front door. Yuh know there won't be no fuss if yore fingers slip on the trigger. I'd rather bury a man any day than arrest him." With a quick motion Loudon flung open the door. "'Nds up!" cried he, sharply, covering the roomful. Ten pairs of hands clawed upward. There were eleven men in the room. Every one of the lot, save the eleventh man, had the impression that the six-shooters of Loudon and Laguerre bore upon him personally. The eleventh citizen, being nearest the door and possessing a gambler's spirit, attempted to reach the street. He reached it--on his face. For Loudon had driven an accurate bullet through the fleshy part of his thigh. "The next fellah," harshly announced Loudon, "who makes any fool breaks will get it halfway beneath his mind an' his mouth. There's a party in the corner, him with the funny face--he ain't displayin' enough enthusiasm in reachin' for the ceilin'. If he don't elevate his flippers right smart an' sudden, he won't have no trouble at all in reachin' the stars." The biceps of the gentleman of the face immediately cuddled his ears. The ten men were now painfully rigid. They said nothing. They did not even think to swear. They knew what they deserved and they dreaded their deserts. "Telescope," observed Loudon, softly, "s'pose yuh go round an' unbuckle their belts. Better go through 'em, too. They might carry shoulder-holsters under their shirts. Take the hono'ble Mister Sheriff Block first. That's right. Now, Mister Sheriff, go an' stand in that corner, face to the side wall, an' keep a-lookin' right at the wall, too. I wouldn't turn my head none, neither. Yuh see, I don't guess there'd be no fuss made if my finger should slip on the trigger. It's a heap easier to bury a man than arrest him, ain't it?" Loudon laughed without mirth. Block's nine friends, murder in their eyes, stared at Loudon. He stared back, his lips drawn to a white line. "Yo're a healthy lot o' killers," commented he. The last belt and six-shooter thudded on the floor just as Loudon perceived that the wounded citizen in the street was endeavouring to crawl away. "Telescope," he said, "I guess now the party in the street would feel a heap easier in here with all his friends."