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 that had been their thought. The door was still about half open; he was determined to keep it that way, ready to drop out of when his time came to leave.

He believed they might cool off a little if he could hold them on the watch until evening. At least some of them would get tired of the game and leave, and the more sensible ones might see the unfairness of their enterprise and quit even before then. He wasn't going to keep their anger hot by provoking them. He wouldn't take a crack at anybody unless he had to do it to drive them out of the car. They couldn't rush him without somebody getting hurt, and they were not out for that. There was no fun in hanging a man if somebody had to be killed to do it.

It was something past eight o'clock when Dunham settled down, back to a bale of hay, to fight his fierce thirst and wear out the long day in defiance of the mob. Night was his only chance now, he knew. There would be a moon, but luck might cloud it up. Shooting even at close range was uncertain in the night; there would be as many chances for as against him then.

Wait until dark, which would not be until nearly nine o'clock in those lengthening days, twelve hours, and more than twelve hours, to stick it out. He did not believe he would bleed to death, for no artery appeared to be cut, although he might be weakened by the drain. He began to rehearse how he would do it when night came.

It was always darker in railroad yards than anywhere else, happily for his chance. He would slip noiselessly out of the door, let them have it good and