Lona Dawson, the banker's daughter, was badly frightened by the sudden outbreak of the mob, and, with her older companion, she retreated into the waiting-room of the station.
"Death to Black Harry!"
A man with strong lungs howled the words above all the uproar and commotion.
"Bring the rope!" screamed another.
And then, as if by magic, a man struggled to the shoulders of those about him, waved a rope in the air, and yelled:
"Hyar's ther necktie fer Black Harry!"
And then, once more, there was a roar, and a surge, and a struggle to get at the handcuffed boy.
"Stiddy!" sounded the voice of Hank Kildare. "Back! back! back! or, by the eternal skies, I'll begin ter sling lead!"
But twenty hands seemed reaching to clutch the lad and drag him away. The sheriff saw that he would not be able to retain his prisoner if he remained where he was.
"Inter ther station, boy!" came from the giant sheriff's lips. "It's yer only chance ter git clear o' this yar gang!"