“Let's get away from here,” urged Tom Reade. “A big crowd hanging about is sure to excite the poor fellow.”
“Reade, you're too soft and easy,” grunted a Paloma man in the crowd. “The only thing that makes Ashby crazy is that he didn't get you.”
“He did 'get' me, however,” laughed Tom, displaying four bullet holes through his shirtsleeves, and two more that pierced his hat. “Ashby got as much of me as I'd want any marksman to get.”
Having withdrawn to a distance, the crowd waited.
It was nearly half an hour before Dr. Furniss stepped outside. Now he walked swiftly over to the edge of the crowd.
“Gentlemen,” remarked the physician, “you are justified in feeling very well pleased that you didn't lynch Ashby. The poor fellow is as insane as a man could well be. He imagines Mr. Reade has hurt his business and is determined to kill him. I'll send for a straightjacket and then we'll hustle him away to the asylum.”
At this moment a wild yell sounded from the shack, to be echoed from the crowd. George Ashby, seemingly possessed of the strength of half a dozen men, had wrenched himself free of his captors, felling both like a flash. Then the hotel man leaped to his horse, freeing it and starting off at a mad gallop.
Instantly a score of men set off after the fugitive, swinging their lariats as they rode.
Crack! Crack! Bang!
Snatching still another automatic revolver from one of his saddle bags, Ashby was now firing at those riding behind him.