Having said it, he sat more erectly in the saddle, blinking sleepily. His eyes looked too small for his broad, squat, fleshy face, his mouth was a pinched dark hole in his beard. He raised his leatherbound stick and scratched behind his ear with its tip. His beard blew and his hat flapped in a gust of wind that ruffled Blaisedell’s hair as well.

“All right!” Now there was an edge of anger to the great, blown voice. “You have made your show—” He did not go on, slumping in the saddle again, as though speech had tired him. He sat as though he were waiting for the two on the porch to disappear. There was silence except for the occasional stamp of a hoof or the jingle of harness among the troopers. Blaisedell did not move. Miss Jessie’s face looked drawn.

Colonel Whiteside edged his horse forward until he was almost in a line between the general and Blaisedell. “I’m sorry, Miss Marlow!” he said, in his high voice. “We will have to clear the strikers out of your house.”

“Have you a warrant, sir?” Miss Jessie said.

“We don’t need a warrant, ma’am. We—”

“I say you need a warrant. And I think there can be no warrant for this disgraceful conduct!”

“You stubborn little fool!” MacDonald cried. “This is the military government you are presuming to—”

“Mineowner’s government!” a thick Cornish voice shouted, and there was a roar of mocking laughter.

Someone yelled from the rooftops, “Sound the charge, bugler! It is Bull Run all over again.” General Peach rose in his stirrups and glanced slowly around him, and up at the roofs.

“We have no government here!” Miss Jessie cried. “Each of us has had to learn to defend his own house!”

“Hear, hear!”

“Shame, General Peach! Oh, shame on you!” The clamor began all around. Buck Slavin appeared on the roof of the Feed and Grain Barn. He climbed up on the parapet, waving his arms and shouting for silence.

“When are we going to get a town patent, General?” Slavin shouted. There were cheers. “When do we get a county of our own without the law a day’s ride away?” The cheering and whistling swelled and rose, while Slavin waved his arms again. Colonel Whiteside had swung around in his saddle, but General Peach sat staring stolidly at Blaisedell.

“When are we going to get a town patent, General?” Slavin shouted. There were cheers. “When do we get a county of our own without the law a day’s ride away?” The cheering and whistling swelled and rose, while Slavin waved his arms again. Colonel Whiteside had swung around in his saddle, but General Peach sat staring stolidly at Blaisedell.

“Mineowners’ law!” the man with the Cornish accent bellowed, and MacDonald rose in his stirrups to try to see the offender. There was jeering.

Slavin waved his arms for quiet. “People of Warlock!” he cried. “A motion! A motion! That we call our county Peach County in honor of the general. And Warlock the county seat! All in favor!”

There were groans mingled with cheers. “Medusa County!” someone cried, and the groans drowned the cheers. “Blaisedell County!” and the cheers drowned the groans. General Peach looked around as though he had been waked from sleep. The catcalls and the jeering grew louder and louder, there were rebel yells, Apache war cries. The general waved his gauntlet holding the leather-bound stick high above his head, and there was a sudden hush.

“A county of jackasses run by a murdering gunman and his doxy?” he said, in his huge voice. “Call it Espirato County for all of me!” Then, as there were boos, he shouted, “Standley, clear the damned jackasses out of the street!”

The major spurred his horse toward the crowd with obvious reluctance, the captain more eagerly. The troopers swept into line behind them, and, horses sidling forward, they pushed the townspeople back into Main Street. The Apache cry was taken up now throughout the crowd until the street was filled with turkey gobbling. General Peach sat glowering, chewing on his cigar. Whiteside was whispering to him.

He thrust the colonel aside with a motion of his stick. “Madam!” he roared. “You asked a minute ago if I had a warrant to go through your house. I ask you if you have a warrant to keep such a house!” He stopped, and waited; there was silence again. Then he said, “A disorderly house! A brothel for dirty miners complete with pimp and madam!”

He raised his stick and cut it viciously through the air, so that the gray shied. “Madam, you are a vile disgrace!” he shouted hoarsely. “And your macquereau with his pistols has killed more decent men than the typhoid. Filth cohabiting with murderous vile filth and prostituting to filth! And time you were stamped out like filth! You are a notorious pair and a public scandal! I will give you and your—”

There was another flat violent crack, and smoke swirled up before Blaisedell again. The general’s raised gauntlet no longer contained the leather-bound stick. The troopers swung their horses around as the major shouted a command; a huge sigh rose from the crowd, an aghast and awed intake of breath that blew out instantly in one great cry of approval and triumph. Colonel Whiteside leaned forward in his stirrups with an arm stretched out toward the general and his mouth wide with some inaudible cry. General Peach snapped his fingers and pointed down, and the colonel dismounted and scampered around the gray to find the stick. The cheering grew louder. The general’s face was dark red.

Whiteside handed him back the stick, and then hurried to remount. The clamor slackened and died. General Peach continued in the same voice, as though he had not been interrupted at all. “—thirty seconds to get off that porch. And exactly one hour to get out of this town!”

Then he sat motionless and silent, slumped and sleepily blinking once more. He did not heed the colonel’s attempts to whisper to him, waving his stick finally as though to brush away a fly. Blaisedell stood facing him with his boots planted apart and his still smoking Colt slanting down in his hand. Slowly he replaced it in its scabbard, and Miss Jessie retreated a little, one hand still gripping the derringer at her side.

Then, all of a sudden, the general sat erect. Laboriously he swung himself out of the saddle. “Sir!” Whiteside whispered. “Sir!” He scrambled from his saddle and tried to intercept the general, who knocked him aside. General Peach tramped through the dust, grunted as he mounted the boardwalk, slapped the leather-bound stick against a black boot. His bootheel struck the first step resoundingly; he mounted the second step.

“Stop right there!” Blaisedell said.

General Peach stopped. He turned, on the step below where Blaisedell stood, to face his troops. He paused there a moment, in the frozen hush, moving his head from side to side as though he were going to speak. Then, with his back to Blaisedell, ponderously, powerfully, but not even swiftly, he swung his arm backhanded, swung the stick in his hand. It struck Blaisedell’s skull with a startling crack. Blaisedell staggered back.

General Peach pivoted with the swing of his arm; grunting, he beat the stick down on the six-shooter in Blaisedell’s hand. The six-shooter fell. He slashed the stick with a heavier, duller crack across Blaisedell’s face. There was a moan from the crowd as Blaisedell fell back again. Miss Jessie screamed.

General Peach moved after Blaisedell with slow, awkward swings of his arm. His tight blouse split down the back and he grunted hugely with every stroke of the leather-bound stick, which flashed through its arc like a brown snake. Blaisedell crumpled and fell. The general straddled his body and brought the stick down again. Miss Jessie flung herself at him, screaming. He slashed at her and she fell back, clutching at her breast.

Then she raised the derringer in both hands and pointed it, as Colonel Whiteside bounded up the steps toward her crying, “No! No!” The hammer fell with the dry snap of a misfire and the colonel caught her in his arms, and wrested the little pistol away. The general slashed his stick down, and down again, unnoticing, “I!” he shouted suddenly, panting. “I am! I am!”