McClintock, bending low, scanned the faces which were raised towards them. “The whole township's here. I don't know one in ten,” he said, straightening up. “I wish I could manage to run over a few,” muttered the doctor, savagely. As they neared the forks of the road Dr. Emory pulled in his horses. A heavy farm-wagon blocked the way, and the driver was stolidly indifferent alike to his entreaties and to McClintock's threat to break his head for him if he didn't move on. They were still shouting at him, when a savage cry swelled up from the throats of those in advance. The murderer was being brought in from the east road. “The brutes!” muttered the doctor, and he turned helplessly to McClintock. “What are we going to do? What can we do?” By way of answer McClintock stood up. “I wish I could see Jim.” But Jim had taken the west road three hours be-fore, and was driving towards Barrow's Saw Mills as fast as McElroy's best team could take him. When he reached there it was enough to make one's blood run cold to hear the good man curse. “You wait here, doctor,” cried McClintock. “You can't get past, and they seem to be coming this way now.” “Look out for yourself, Milt!” “Never fear for me.” He jumped down into the dusty, trampled road, and foot by foot fought his way forward. As he had said, those in front were turning back. The result was a horrible jam, for those behind were still struggling to get within sight of the murderer. A drunken man at McClintock's elbow was shouting, “Lynch him!” at the top of his lungs. The master-mechanic wrenched an arm free and struck at him with the flat of his hand. The man appeared surprised, but not at all angry. He merely wiped the blood from his lips and asked, in an injured tone, which conveyed a mild reproof, “What did you want to do that for? I don't know you,” and as he sought to maintain his place at McClintock's side he kept repeating, “Say, neighbor, I don't know you. You certainly got the advantage of me.” Soon McClintock was in the very thick of the mob, and then he saw the captive. His hands were bound and he was tied with ropes to the front seat of a buckboard drawn by two jaded horses. His captors were three iron-jawed, hard-faced countrymen. They were armed with shot-guns, and were enjoying their splendid triumph to the full. McClintock gave only one look at the prisoner. An agony of fear was on him. The collar of his shirt was stiff with blood from a wounded face. His hat was gone, and his coat was torn. Scared and wondering, his eyes shifted uneasily over the crowd. But the one look sufficed McClintock, and he lost all interest in the scene. There would be no lynching that night, for the man was not Roger Oakley. Further than that, he was gray-haired and burly; he was as unlike the old convict as one man could well be unlike another. Suddenly the cry was raised, “It ain't him. You fellows got the wrong man!”