“Come along of me,” Morera said. “We’ll promenade right around the hall.”
He put her arm in his and swaggered up and down. The other dancers were gathering in knots and eyeing them menacingly. At last an enormous American slouched across the empty floor and stood in their path.
“Say, who the hell are you, anyway?” he asked.
“Say, what the hell’s dat to you?” demanded Morera.
“Quit!” bellowed the American.
Morera fired without taking his hand from his pocket, and the American dropped.
“Hands up! Manos arriba!” cried Morera, pulling out his two pistols and covering the dancers while he backed with Sylvia toward the entrance. When they were up-stairs in the vestibule he told her to look if the carriage were at the door; when he heard that it was not he gave a loud whoop of exultation.
“I said I believed we was going to have lots of fun. We got to run now and see if any of those guys can catch us.”
He seized Sylvia’s arm, and they darted down the steps and out into the street. Morera looked rapidly right and left along the narrow thoroughfare. They could hear the noise of angry voices gathering in the vestibule of the saloon.
“This way and round the turning,” he cried, pulling Sylvia to the left. There was only one window alight in the narrow alley up which they had turned, a dim orange stain in the darkness. Morera hammered on the door as their pursuers came running round the corner. Two or three shots were fired, but before they were within easy range the door had opened and they were inside. The old hag who had opened it protested when she saw Sylvia, but Morera commanded her in Spanish to bolt it, and she seemed afraid to disobey. Somewhere in a distant part of the house there was a sound of women’s crooning; outside they could hear the shuffling of their pursuers’ feet.