Mr. Brander was a man of few superfluities--a born director of others. This was because he never let an occasion over-ripen, but plucked his fruit before it fell. He had been quite prepared before the threatening utterance, and with the echo of it he wheeled about and fired his pistol with unerring aim into the thick of the group. On the clap of the shot broke a loud hiccough--as if the bullet had pierced a wind-bag--and a fellow pitched forward on the threshold and bled silently on the floor. “That’s my bird,” said the sportsman. He strode to the door, the company stumbling and retreating before him. “I’ve the other barrel,” he said. “Does any one want it?” He stood waiting a moment in a black pause before he spoke again: “You’re reflecting who it is plans the entrances while your cow-heads are butting at the wall. Who is it prepares the way, here and everywhere, I say, and supplies the brains without which you’d never finger a crown-piece of your own getting?” A little patter of voices murmured up, “Ebenezer Brander!” “Ah!” he said, “that’s proper scholars, and spoken to the word.” He pocketed his discharged pistol. “When you feel you can do without me--when you feel you can depend upon him there” (he turned fiercely and signified his captain, who stood with an infernal smile on his face) “for all that suits you best--then’ll be the time to question my methods and offer me my pass to hell.” He kicked out his foot slightly in the direction of the dead rogue. “We were a baker’s dozen. Take away Judas Iscariot and change the luck.” Perhaps the suggestion, the appeal to superstition, operated as powerfully with the company as the man’s own sinister personality. With exclamations of approval they dragged away the fallen body. It left a torn wake of red behind it. “Now, Mr. Fern,” said Brander, turning once more upon his chief--“in your own interests you’ll thank me, I know, for this exhibition of authority. It only remains to give this gentleman his last warning.” “You bitter dogs!” cried up the captive, horror-stricken and overcome at the swiftness of the tragedy. “I refuse any terms you may offer. Why, what could such brutal cowards effect against a couple of honest, determined men? Kill me, if you like, and certify yourselves for the gallows. I back my good fellows to hold you at bay till the snow melts, and there you’ll be caught in a trap and the crows shall banquet. Kill me, and effect more than you’ve done in all these two days!” Forgetful in his emotion of every prudence, he raised himself on an arm. Brander uttered a hoarse chuckling cry. “God of thunder!” he exclaimed. “Where’s Joe Corby?” The man was pushed into the room. “Joe,” said the villain--“he tempted but couldn’t prevail, eh? Isn’t that so?” The puzzled fellow scratched his head. “Work it out, Joe. We cut you short in cutting his bonds, didn’t we?” He was fingering his second pistol. Tuke cried out in agony: