billet of wood in the Butcher's hands. Twisty, Spud, the Mouser, a dozen more, were close at his heels. The heavy face of Wenger, his hand locked in the collar of a convict he was shoving before him, loomed up in the doorway.
"Croak 'im! Croak 'im! I tho't youse were all right!" shrilled Twisty, in the belief that Varge was but leading the rush. "T'ree-sevens gets the foist crack at'im!"
Mad with the lust for blood, mad with the lust for freedom they were. There was no thought now of personal wrongs in Varge's mind—hound and cur though Wenger was, he was at least a human being—they would tear him in pieces like wild beasts. And freedom—they were guilty men—criminals—a prey on society—what right had they to freedom!
Wenger's face had gone from red to grey, fear was in it, then came a brutish look of animal courage. He wrenched at his pocket for his revolver, but the convict in his grasp—Scotty—turned suddenly and flung his arms around him.
A bull-like roar and an oath came from Wenger as Varge neared him.
"I'll get you anyway!" he bellowed.
"Fight, Wenger! Get free from that man! Fight for it if you want to live!" Varge flashed at him—and turned to face the on-coming rush.
It was upon him like an avalanche. A little crouched, he met it. It seemed to shiver and part and break and go scattering backward as a tempest's wave breaks in futile fury against the rocky cliff.
Execrations, a torrent of blasphemy, curses and yells,
