After the glasses had been filled and drained, Henderson went over and stood for a while in the grateful warmth of the booming hearth. He was looking on at this picture with its savor of medievalism--the ensemble that called to mind a Hogarth prim, but soon he nodded to his guide who slouched not far from his elbow. "I reckon we'd better fare on, Mr. Blackwell," he suggested evenly. "We've still got a journey ahead of us." Blackwell seemed less impressed with the immediate urgency. "Thar hain't no tormentin' haste," he demurred. "We're all right stiff-j'inted from ridin'. We mout as well limber up a leetle mite afore we starts out ergin." Jerry's eyes clouded. He would have preferred finding a spirit of readier obedience in his body-guard, but it was best to accept the situation with philosophy. Accordingly he turned again to the bar, though this time he made only a pretense of drinking. Fresh arrivals had begun drifting in and the place now held more than a score. Among them were already several whose voices were thickening or growing shrill, according to their individual fashions of becoming drunk. Jerry sought to reassure himself against the disquieting birth of suspicion, yet when he heard one of the newcomers address Blackwell as Sam instead of John, an ugly apprehension settled upon him and this foreboding was not allayed as he caught the response in a low and savage growl: "Shet up, ye fool!" The temper of the motley outfit was rapidly growing boisterous, though he himself seemed ignored until, in turning, he accidently jostled a man whom he had never seen before to-night, and that individual wheeled on him with an abusive truculence. Henderson's gorge rose, but his realization was now fully awake to the requirement of self-control, so with a good-natured retort he moved away. Beckoning peremptorily to Blackwell, he started at a deliberate pace toward the door, but before he reached it, the staggering figure of the quarrelsome unknown overtook him and lurched drunkenly against him. Then Henderson felt a stunning blow in the face, and under its unexpected force he reeled back against the wall. He was no longer in doubt. He had been beguiled here to be made the victim of what should appear an accidental encounter, and all that remained now was to sell his life at as punitive a rate as possible. As he reached under his coat for the automatic pistol which was his sole remaining dependence, he caught in a sidewise glimpse the face of Sam Carlyle alias John Blackwell. It wore a sardonic smile and its lips opened like a trap to shout in a staccato abandonment of disguise. "Git him, boys! _Git_ him!"