“Set right still ez you are. I’m keepin’ you-all covered!” he growled and stepped backward into the road. He backed away a few steps, still holding the muzzle trained on the car, then wheeled and dived into the woods where he had emerged.
Williams was tugging at his revolver and swearing fervently, but Lockwood plunged out of the car. Bursting through a screen of drenching gallberry bushes he saw the robber at full run, twenty yards ahead up a narrow trail. Still farther he saw the head and shoulders of a tied horse.
“Stop! Drop that bag!” he roared. The man glanced once over his shoulder, but ran on, running awkwardly, hampered by his long slicker. Lockwood was only ten feet behind when he reached the horse and attempted to mount. The horse, restless at the commotion, sidled off, capered, the bandit lost his hold, and Lockwood, charging up, seized him by the arm.
“Drop it, you damn fool!” he ejaculated. “Are you crazy? Don’t you know you can’t get away with this?”
The man’s eyes met his under the wet hat-brim, and the satchel dropped to the ground. Lockwood picked it up.
“Now beat it—quick!” he half whispered. “Here comes Williams.”
As the horse thundered away, smashing through the dripping undergrowth, he fired two shots far aside into the woods.
Williams was coming at a lame hobble, waving his gun.
“You didn’t let him get away?” he called furiously.
Lockwood turned, wet from head to foot.