"It looks ugly, my boy," he said. "Jake Falerin's son, young Jake, has assumed the leadership, and his one song is punishment of his father's murder. He's drinking and excited, and he has a strong and nasty-tempered force behind him. I've been with him, urging peace, and several of his older advisers seem inclined to listen. I've gotten their promise that they will make every mortal effort to delay any outbreak until I've made my speech at noon. That's as far as I can move them." "And the other fellows--the Spooners?" inquired the son anxiously. "What's their mood? If they commence celebrating the return of these assassins, the situation will become hopeless." McAllister nodded. "So far they seem quiet enough, but they are all armed to the teeth and keyed to concert pitch. Black Pete has kept religiously out of sight, and seems to be acting in good faith. He slipped secretly into town before sunrise, and has been under cover ever since in the court-house. He has talked to several of his leaders in my presence. They, too, have promised to hold their hands until I have spoken. My God, Henry, the single chance seems to hang on the possibility of my being able to sweep them off their feet--and if I fail--!" He broke off suddenly, and his eyes wore the torture of weariness. They walked between swelling crowds, always separated by the width of the street into opposing forces, but from both groups the glances that fell upon father and son were glances of confidence and admiration. If there was any man living whose voice could penetrate, with a message of harmony, their armored hatreds, that man was McAllister Falkins. But he had won and held his influence by his total aloofness of attitude. Now, he was to take a central and pivotal position, and, if he failed, his prestige would go down to wreck with his effort, and the work of a lifetime would collapse like a pin-pricked balloon. No women or children were to be seen on the streets. Doors were closed, and the more public hitching-racks were empty. Horses and mules had been relegated to back streets and sheltered places. But as yet from the gathering storm-cloud had broken no rumble of thunder and no flash of lightning. There was only a constant tightening of nerves to the point where they must be released or snap. To the eyes of Henry Falkins, the answer was hideously clear. They meant to hear his father patiently as a matter of respect; but they had no intention of being influenced by what he said. When he reached his conclusion, the gathered tempest would break; and, when it had subsided, another bloody chapter would have been added to the history of these mud-rutted and twisting streets. It could not be undone. Meanwhile, even the complimentary restraint could not last, if a single fanatic broke from the order of the ranks.