“Oh, God bless you, sir!” cried Allerton. “I couldn’t bear to die this way; it would kill my mother! Yes, yes, of course I give my word. Only let me have a chance to fight, and die fighting—” “No dying in the case,” Amos interrupted; “but what in thunder are the cusses cheering for? Come on; this needs looking into. _Cheering!_” He hurried down the heavy stairs into the hall, where Raker, a little paler, and Mrs. Raker, a little more flushed than usual, were examining the bolts of the great door. Amos flung a glare of scorn at it, and he snorted under his breath: “Locks! No need of locking _You_! I could bust you with the hose!” As if in answer, the cheering burst forth anew, and now it was coupled with his name: “Wickliff! Amos! _Amos!_” “Let me out!” commanded Wickliff, and he slipped back the bolts. He stepped under the light of the door-lamp outside, tall and strong, and cool as if he had a Gatling gun beside him. A cheer rolled up from the crowd—yes, not only from the crowd, but from the blue-coated ranks massed to one side, and the young faces behind the bayonets. Amos stared. He looked fiercely from the mob to the guardians of the law. Then, amid a roar of laughter, for the crowd perfectly understood his gesture of bewilderment and anger, Foley’s voice bellowed, “All right, sheriff; we’ve got her safe!” * * * * * They tell to this day how the iron sheriff, whose composure had been proof against every test brought against it, and whom no man had ever before seen to quail, actually staggered against the door. Then he gave them a broad grin of his own, and shouted with the rest, for there in the heart of the rush jailward, lifted up on a chair—loaned, as afterwards appeared (when it came to the time for returning), from Hans Obermann’s “Place”—sat enthroned old Margaret Clark; and she was looking as if she liked it! They got her to the jail porch; Amos pacified the crowd with free beer at Obermann’s, and carried her over the threshold in his arms. He put her down in the big arm-chair in his office, opposite the portraits of his parents, and Esquire Clark slid into the room and purred at her feet, while Mrs. Raker fanned her. It was rather a chilly evening, the heat having given place to cold in the sudden fashion of the climate; but good Mrs. Raker knew what was due to a person in a faint or likely to faint, and she did not permit the weather to disturb her rules. Calmly she began to fan, saying meanwhile, in a soothing tone, “There, there, don’t _you_ worry! it’s all right!” Raker stood by, waiting for orders and smiling feebly. And young Allerton simply gasped. “You were at Foley’s, then?” Amos was the first to speak—apart from Mrs. Raker’s crooning, which, indeed, was so far automatic that it can hardly be called speech; it was merely a vocal exercise intended to quiet the mind. “You _were_ at Foley’s, then?” says Amos.