At the door the marshal looked around:
"Some of you fellers get the doctor or undertaker—whichever he needs—and take care of Sabota!" he called to the group around the body of the Greek.
Like a flash the muzzle of the Ramblin' Kid's gun was pressed against the side of Poole.
"Put 'em up, Tom!" he snapped, "I don't want to kill you, but I will if I have to—I ain't goin' to rot in no jail just for stampin' a dirty snake-to death!"
The marshal's hands shot into the air as if operated by springs.
The Ramblin' Kid, with his left hand, jerked Poole's revolver from its holster. He backed into the street toward where Captain Jack and Old Pie Face were standing, still with his own gun covering the officer.
"Jack!" he cried sharply, "meet me!"
The little stallion moved toward him.
With the thumb of the hand in which he held the marshal's gun the
Ramblin' Kid threw open the breech and flipped the shells on the ground.
He tossed the empty forty-four to one side, threw the reins over
Captain Jack's head and the next instant was in the saddle. The broncho
wheeled and was gone, in a dead run, toward the west.
The marshal rushed into the street and picked up his gun, jerked some cartridges from his belt, slipped them into the cylinder and fired quickly at the fleeing horse and rider.