“Hands up!”
The command rang simultaneously from three directions. After a startled
interval, during which many arms made unconscious gestures toward many
hips, every hand was raised. These men that lined the counter, and
crowded the sloppy tables of the “Silver Star,” were rough creatures all
of them—men that had ridden weary miles, borne bitter hardships, and
faced death in countless forms, in every State west of the Mississippi!
But this was different. They were awed. More than one strong face paled.
The silence became intense.
From every window at least two bright rings of metal—remorseless eyes of
the grim forty-four—were turned upon them. And behind each weapon was
the motionless, black figure of one of the dreaded night-riders!
The costume of the visitors consisted of a long, effuse garment which
fell almost to the feet, and was topped by a cape, so arranged as to
cover the back and breast while leaving the arms free. It was surmounted
by a round helmet-like hood. A flap, which fell like the chain-mail of
the knights of the Middle Ages from under the hood, and in which oblong
horizontal apertures were cut for the eyes, effectively concealed the
entire head and face. The sinister blackness of the habit was relieved
by just one thing—the even more sinister red “J” on the right breast of
each rider!
One of the visitors, distinguished by his height, his powerful
shoulders, and the slightly larger “J” on his arm, advanced into the
saloon. The men gave way before him, and he stood alone before the bar.
“Keep quiet,” he said in a clear, emotionless voice, “and there will be
no trouble.”
Nevertheless, from the back of the crowd, a voice spoke. “I know you,”
it snarled. “Tryin’ to work the Ku Klux Klan again, eh? Well, that old
game won’t go in this town!”
Very quietly half a dozen revolvers focused themselves on the
unprepossessing face of “Wasp” Williams, rising above the heads of his
companions. He did not speak again.
The black-robed figure in the center eyed the silent assembly keenly for
a moment, then beckoned toward the door. Another figure entered,
carrying several articles. It climbed nimbly upon the bar, straddled the
space between it and the wide shelf where the array of bottled liquor
stood, and, with leisurely attention to symmetry and design, pasted two
posters upon the mirror behind. Then it coming down again. It stood for
a moment beside the other, and seemed to be dwarfed by comparison. Its
eyes could be seen traveling slowly over the speechless crowd. Finally,
with a gesture plainly expressive of contempt and disappointment, it
turned and passed out as silently as it had come.
The posters were printed in large, black letters, and at the bottom of
each was the now familiar red “J.”
The tall man before the bar again addressed the crowd. His voice was
quiet; but there was a quality in it which conveyed a stern warning.
“Just a word or two before we leave. This organization has been formed
in the interests of decency and justice. It will exist just as long as
it is necessary—and no longer. No man who is decent and straight has
anything to fear from us.
“One of these posters announces an election three days from now. It is
time this town had a mayor, a sheriff, and tome sort of governing body
and authority. We propose to give it a chance to select those. The
notice explains all that is necessary. Every man is welcome to vote, and
vote as he pleases. Nobody will be molested, no matter how he votes,
provided he is peaceable. But you are warned against attempting
lawlessness of any kind. It will be put down without mercy!”
He turned, crossed the room, and went out. There was the sound of men
getting to horse. A little later all but the four figures at the doors
withdrew; and, a moment later still, four others on horseback appeared
at the windows, and the ones at the doors also backed out. After a short
delay, during which the noise of pawing hoofs and the jingle of
trappings entered the silent room, the black figures at the windows
suddenly vanished.
A dead instant followed, every one in the saloon standing with hands
still up-raised. Then, with an oath, a burly miner, who towered above
his fellows, rushed to the door, jerking out his two revolvers as he
ran. Fifty yards along the road, a large body of black figures was just
getting under way. He fired into the very center of the group.
A little muffled cry came back on the wind, and a figure, strangely
smaller and slighter than the others, reeled for a second in the saddle.
Instantly, the tall rider who had addressed the crowd, wheeled his
horse, glanced at the smaller figure, saw that it was again sitting its
horse easily, and galloped back toward the door.
Spurring straight into the stream of bullets that poured from the two
revolvers before him, he swiftly closed up the interval. His arm darted
from under his cape, and a flash of light stabbed the darkness. The huge
man in the doorway clutched once at the jamb for support, then toppled
backward. A clean hole in his forehead told that he would never cause
trouble again.
Others in the saloon had also hurried toward the windows. But the sight
of this sudden retribution stopped them in their tracks.
The avenger waited a moment, facing them unmovingly, then rode back to
his comrades. After a deliberate delay, the black band, unmolested,
trotted quietly away.
Back in the saloon, the pause held but a moment, broke, and left the
crowd in uproar. One or two ran out into the road and sent a belated,
scattered, and harmless volley after the riders. Others examined the
fallen miner; but it was evident that he was past assistance, and scant
attention was given him. It was the way of the youthful West to pay
ready homage to any one who could amuse, interest, or terrorize it; but,
once a leader went down, it turned readily and quickly to any one else
who could take his place. There were not a few who openly murmured that
Simpson had got what he deserved. The majority ignored him completely
and surged around the posters.
As the leader of the visitors had said, one was simply an announcement
of an election, giving the time, place, and details, and suggesting the
names of various men as likely candidates.
The other was a column of seventeen names. Beneath was a curt order
giving their bearers forty-eight hours to leave town. The name of “Wasp”
Williams headed the list.