"Stop that shooting! You're liable to explode the dynamite. No need for that--we'll get him!" Grant whirled. Again he brought the chair crashing downward, and Faggi had been knocked from the platform. The members of the I.W.W. recoiled slightly. Grant, white faced and grim, scowled at them. "I'd advise you not to try to touch this dynamite!" he ordered. "I'll use this chair on any one who comes near--and I'll swing to kill!" A growl answered him, as a great, heavy shouldered German edged his way forward, and sprung toward the platform, Grant kept his word. A second later, the German wavered in his tracks, stumbled and fell, to lay quite still beside the other two men on the floor. Again a recoil--but Grant knew that it was only for a minute. And in that minute, how his ears strained for the sound of galloping horses! How he waited and hoped! Then a sudden rush of men. It seemed that by some common impulse, the whole great hall surged forward--climbing upon the platform, dodging and swirling, seeking to come under the defense that Harrison Grant kept up, ducking the blows of the heavy chair, surging back then coming forward again, striving to corner him, to beat him down---- High in the air went the chair to descend again--and to carry with it the form of a plotter. Again--and again--and again. Then Harrison Grant felt the chair wrested from his grasp and thrown far to one side. A screaming voice echoed in his ears---- "Now we've got him! Come on men!" Grant had his back to the wall. Regardless of the danger of exploding the dynamite he brought forth his revolvers. "Stand back there," he shouted. "The first man who comes at me gets a bullet! Understand? Stand back there!" They hesitated just a second. Then the rush came again. The crackle of Grant's revolver sounded--to be echoed by a groan as a man fell. Then the sheer weight of men bore him down, crushing his revolver from his grasp, pinioning his wrists, while fists beat upon his breast and his face. From far away came a slight clattering sound--the sound of hoof beats. It sent new life into Harrison Grant. He broke from his assailants and with tremendous crashing blows, again cleared a space before him. But only for a moment--then his opponents closed in again. But above the shouting, above the racking pain, above everything, could be heard the clattering of those hoofs--coming closer, closer, closer----