Bill Dunham, lying bleeding in the freight car, his hasty bulwarks of hay protecting him front and flank, a solid pile of it roof-high behind him, felt himself in a pretty tight hole. It was so tight, and apparently so hopeless, that he believed his time had come to say good-by to daylight. Romance had led him into this pass, and there was no romance in such an end.
His wound was a streak of fire; the torture of sudden thirst that flares up from the drain of such a hurt was in his throat. Such a torment, growing as he knew his would increase as the sun mounted and beat down on the thin roof, might drive a man to face even the rope. He knew nothing, could know nothing, of the character of the mob, except there was no valor in it.
And a man could not make a compromise with cowards who held the advantage. He knew of old from the maulings, taunts and humiliations he had suffered at bullying hands, that no compromise could be made with cowards. He must lie there and suffer, and save his precious ammunition, wait for night and the chance it might bring him to escape or fight it out.
He could feel the crowd growing, even though he could not see it, for they were keeping carefully behind the depot, although he knew he was watched closely. He had only the ammunition in his belt and gun. He ran his thumb around the belt, thinking how few cartridges there were for so many scoundrels in that town who ought to be shot, wondering what the end would be.
His honest soul protested against the unfair deal they were giving him in that town, rising up that way against him because he had defended his rights. The cattlemen
