"
"Oh, let's have it all, boss, now you're at it!" broke in Nixon. "We
shan't have hysterics now. We're past that stage."
Warden turned with a lightning movement and laid his hand upon the girl
beside him. "Gentlemen," he said, "it's Fletcher Hill--and not Buckskin
Bill--who's the boss of this valley. And he's a good boss--he's a
sportsman--he's a maker of men. And this lady is going to be his wife.
You're going to stand by her, boys. You aren't going to make a widow of
her before she's married. You aren't going to let a skunk like Harley
make skunks of you all. You're sportsmen, too--better sportsmen than that
stands for--better sportsmen, maybe, than I am myself. What, boys? It's
your turn to speak now."
"Wait a bit!" said Nixon. "You haven't quite finished yet, boss."
"No, that's true." Warden paused an instant, then abruptly went forward a
pace and stood alone before the crowd. "I've taken a good many chances in
my life," he said. "But now I'm taking the biggest of 'em all. Boys, I'm
a damned impostor. I've tricked you all, and it's up to you to stick me
against a wall and shoot me as I deserve, if you feel that way. For I'm
Buckskin Bill--I'm Fortescue--and I'm several kinds of a fool to think I
could ever carry it through. Now you know!"
With defiant recklessness he flung the words. They were more of a
challenge than a confession. And having spoken them he moved straight
forward with the moonlight on his face till he stood practically among
the rough crowd.
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