With a single motion he was through the open window. Bending branches of the nearest cottonwood broke his fall—the other trees hid his flight.
Behind him rose uproar, tumult and hullabaloo, a mass of struggling men at cross purposes. Gun in hand, the sheriff, stumbling over some one’s foot—Monte’s—ran to the window; but the faithful deputy was before him, blocking the way, firing with loving care—at one particular tree-trunk. He was a good shot, Jimmy. He afterward showed with pride where each ball had struck in a scant six-inch space. Vainly the sheriff tried to force his way through. There was but one stairway, and it was jammed. Before the foremost pursuer had reached the open Jeff had borrowed one of the saddled horses hitched at the rack and was away to the hills.
As Billy struggled through the press, searching for Ellinor, he found himself at Jimmy’s elbow.
“A dead game sport—any turn in the road!” agreed Billy.
The deputy nodded curtly; but his answer was inconsequent:
“Rather in the brunette line—that bit of tangible evidence!”