The tramps had snapped out their light, and so offered no mark for the guns of the authorities of the law. Flashes of orange flame pierced the darkness as the sheriff fired at the spot where the tramps had been working. Finally there was a rush of feet, and the sheriff fired in the direction of the sound.
There was a cry of pain from one of the tramps, and then a crash as one hurled himself through the open window.
Dick was the nearest to the window, and in a flash had followed the lead set by the tramp. He had dropped his rifle as he jumped, and was therefore unarmed, while the tramp still had his revolver.
The refugee was only a few steps ahead of him, and had slackened his stride for a moment to get his bearings and determine in which direction he should run.
This was Dick’s opportunity. Straight at the tramp he ran, and with the practice borne of long years on the football field,—for he was the star center of the high school team,—dived straight at the running man.
He hit him with a shock just above the knees, and the man fell like a stricken ox. It will be remembered that Dick was a heavy chap, and the weight of his body added to the great force with which he struck the man, was enough to knock the wind entirely out of the tramp.
As the man lay there, stunned for the moment, Dick possessed himself of the revolver, and with this show of arms was able to force his prisoner to march back to the spot where Lafe Green was being held under guard.
There were no more shots from the store, and in a moment or two the sheriff appeared with the constable and the prisoner. He gave these in charge of Dick and the man Hawkins, and then went back to aid his deputy.
The fusilade of shots had drawn several half-dressed men to the scene, and great was their astonishment when they saw the sheriff’s party and their prisoners.
The deputy was carried to the home of one of the men, and a doctor called, but it was found that he had sustained nothing more than a bad flesh wound.