Morgan caught the flutter of a dress at the farther corner of the bank—a little squat brick building this was—where some woman stood and watched. He rode around, and at the sound of his approach a gun-barrel was trained on him, and a familiar fair head appeared, cheek laid against the rifle stock in a most determined and competent way.
"Dora! don't shoot!" Morgan shouted. In a moment he was on the ground beside her, and Dora Conboy was handing him his own rifle, pride and relief in her blue eyes.
"I knew you'd come, I told them you'd come!" she said.
"How did you save it—what are you doing here, Dora?" he asked in amazement.
"I was layin' for Craddock! If he'd 'a' come around that corner—but it was you!"—with a sigh of relief.
"Have you got any shells, Dora?"
"No, I didn't have time to grab anything but your gun—I run to your room when they set the hotel afire and drove us out."
"You're the bravest man in town!" he praised her, patting her shoulder as if she were a very little girl, indeed. "Where are they all?"
"They've locked Riley, and Judge Thayer, and all the men that's got a fight in 'em up in jail with the sheriff. Pa got away—he's over there where you hear that shootin'—but he can't hit nothin'!" Dora said, in hopeless disgust.