“They’re going to come a-shooting next time,” remarked Denver. “Just as soon as he comes back from bye-low land you’ll see things hum.” “Y’u bet,” agreed Missou. “We’ll last about three minutes when the stampede begins.” The scream of an engine pierced the night. Denver’s face lit. “Make it five minutes, Missou, and Mac is safe. At least, I’m hoping so awful hard. Miss Helen wired for the militia from Sheridan this mo’ning. Chances are they’re on that train. I couldn’t tell you earlier because she made me promise not to. She was afraid it might leak out and get things started sooner.” Weak but furious, the miscreant from the Shoshones returned to the attack. “Break in the back door and sneak up behind on those fellows. We’ll have the men we want inside of fifteen minutes,” he promised the mob. “We’ll rush them from both sides, and show those guys on the landing whether they can stop us,” added Bostwick. Suddenly some one raised the cry, “The soldiers!” Bannister looked up the street and swore a vicious oath. Swinging down the road at double time came a company of militia in khaki. He was mad with baffled fury, but he made good his retreat at once and disappeared promptly into the nearest dark alley. The mob scattered by universal impulse; disintegrated so promptly that within five minutes the soldiers held the ground alone, save for the officials of the prison and Denver’s little band. A boyish lieutenant lately out of the Point, and just come in to a lieutenancy in the militia, was in command. “In time?” he asked anxiously, for this was his first independent expedition. “Y’u bet,” chuckled Denver. “We’re right glad to see you, and I’ll bet those boys in the cage ain’t regretting your arrival any. Fifteen minutes later and you would have been in time to hold the funeral services, I reckon.” “Where is Miss Messiter?” asked the young officer. “She’s at the Elk House, colonel. I expect some of us better drift over there and tell her it’s all right. She’s the gamest little woman that ever crossed the Wyoming line. Hadn’t been for her these boys would have been across the divide hours ago. She’s a plumb thoroughbred. Wouldn’t give up an inch. All day she has generaled this thing; played a mighty weak hand for a heap more than it was worth. Sand? Seh: she’s grit clear through, if anybody asks you.” And Denver told the story of the day, making much of her unflinching courage and nothing of her men’s readiness to back whatever steps she decided upon. It was ten minutes past eleven when a smooth young, apple-cheeked lad in khaki presented himself before Helen Messiter with a bow never invented outside of West Point. “I am Lieutenant Beecher. Governor Raleigh presents his compliments by me, Miss Messiter, and is very glad to be able to put at your service such forces as are needed to quiet the town.” “You were in time?” she breathed.