So, Newt, aflame with rage and the liquor which during all the forenoon he had been drinking, jerked his horse to its flanks, and looked wildly about. He had been riding in the approved fashion of the mountain bad man with his reins in his teeth and both hands dedicated to his firearms. His feet had been flying like flails because the old nag was unresponsive to his belligerent ardor and lent itself grudgingly to this mad career. But, spurring and shouting through his clenched teeth with his body swung sidewise for the broadside, Newt suddenly saw his victim surrounded and spirited into a place of safety. Then, with a howl of anger, he took one hand from his rifle to drag at his horse's mouth. He was going into that house, if he had to fight his way over every man in Jackson. By-standers scattered, not because they feared a drunken boy with a gun, but because just now they stood on their good behavior, and hesitated to shoot. "Let me git at Henry Falkins! Git outen my road!" screamed the boy. His whole appearance was that of a maniac, and, as he spoke, the Deacon and his three henchmen came hurrying from the door into the street. Newt did not see them because his mad course had carried him a few yards beyond the shack which was his objective, but Black Pete and his allies were losing no time. As the boy swung himself from his saddle on the far side of his nag, his eyes still turned inward, he flung himself straight into the bear-like hug of the Deacon. Before he could struggle free, he was pinioned by three other pairs of arms, and was a prisoner. Kicking, biting and bellowing, he was disarmed and carried unceremoniously out into the street. Someone asked contemptuously, "Who is that fool kid?" for Newt had not been much seen in Jackson since they had taken him down to the state prison, and to many persons he was still a stranger. The boy himself tried to answer, but was silenced by a hand clapped roughly over his mouth; so he only gurgled and choked. "It's only Little Newt Spooner," enlightened the Deacon commiseratingly. "He's just got drunk, an' ain't hardly responsible. Where's Micah French?" "What air ye 'lowin' ter do with him?" asked a Falkins man, who expected the lad's kinsmen to make excuses for him, and carry him back to his own cabin. The Deacon looked up with a glance of grave reproach, as though the question grieved him. "What can we do with him, except put him in the jail-house? He was breakin' the law, wasn't he? He was threatenin' the peace and quiet, an' endangerin' human life, wasn't he?"