crowded; the judge speaking from behind the desk: "to be hanged by the neck until"
A revolver came into the hand of Andrew. And when he found his voice it was as thin and high as the voice of a girl, for there was a snapping tension in it.
"Stop!" he called. The scattering line stopped like horses thrown back on their haunches by jerked bridle reins. "And don't make no move," continued Andy, gathering the reins of Buck's horse behind him. A blanket of silence had dropped on the street.
"The first gent that shows metal," said Andy, "I'll drill him. Keep steady!"
He turned and flashed into the saddle. Once more his gun covered them. He found his mind working swiftly, calmly. His knees pressed the long holster of an old-fashioned rifle. He knew that make of gun from toe to foresight; he could assemble it in the dark.
"You, Perkins! Get your hands away from your hip. Higher, blast you!"
He was obeyed. His voice was still thin, but it kept that line of hands high above their heads. When he moved his gun the whole line winced; it was as if his will were communicated to them on electric currents. He sent his horse into a walk; into a trot; then dropped along the saddle, and was plunging at full speed down the street, leaving a trail of sharp alkali dust behind him and a long, tingling yell.
