Edwards, angered almost to the point of killing, ordered the crowd to stand against the wall, and laughed viciously when he saw two men senseless on the floor. “Hope he beat in yore heads!” he gritted, savagely. “Harlan, put yore paws up in sight or I'll drill you clean! Now climb over an' get in line—quick!”
Johnny moaned and opened his eyes. “Did—did I—get him?”
“No; but he gimleted you, all right,” Hopalong replied. “You'll come 'round if you keep quiet.” He arose, his face hard with the desire to kill. “I'm coming back for you, Harlan, after I get yore friend! An' all the rest of you pups, too!”
“Get me out of here,” whispered Johnny.
“Shore enough, Kid; but keep quiet,” replied Hopalong, picking him up in his arms and moving carefully towards the door. “We'll get him, Johnny; an' all the rest, too, when——” The voice died out in the direction of Jackson's and the marshal, backing to the front door, slipped out and to one side, running backward, his eyes on the saloon.
“Yore day's about over, Harlan,” he muttered. “There's going to be some few funerals around here before many hours pass.”
When he reached the store he found the owner and two Double-Arrow punchers taking care of Johnny. “Where's Hopalong?” he asked.
“Gone to tell his foreman,” replied Jackson. “Hey, youngster, you let them bandages alone! Hear me?”
“Hullo, Kansas,” remarked John Bartlett, foreman of the Double-Arrow. “I come nigh getting yore man; somebody rode past me like a streak in the dark, so I just ups an' lets drive for luck, an' so did he. I heard him cuss an' I emptied my gun after him.”
“The rest was a-passing the word along to ride in when I left the line,” remarked one of the other punchers. “How you feeling now, Johnny?”