“Father’s down there. I—I wouldn’t want him killed—”
“He’ll have to look out for himself,” Johnny said without a second’s hesitancy. “It’s me or him. This thing goes through to a finish this time. You go back in the tunnel a ways. There’ll be shootin’ directly.”
Dismissed, beside herself with worry and hopelessness, Molly crawled back to safety. In her heart there was no malice toward Johnny. He was in danger at her request. It made him the master. He was fighting for her!
Her deductions were as primitive as a cave-woman’s. Likewise, they were uncommonly sound.
Kent had his forces in position now, and from behind bowlders a half dozen men dashed for the flat. Charlie Paul did not wait for Johnny’s permission to fire. Johnny’s gun began flashing, too. Two men with arms limp at their sides scurried back. Three others, uninjured, followed them. One man—Stub Rawlings—lay face upward in the open, pawing the ground with his legs, one of which had a hole shot through it.
“Better take care of him, Hobe,” Johnny cried. “Git him out of the way. Just you alone does the job.”
Stalwart, unafraid, big Hobe walked into view.
“Good God, Johnny!” he shouted. “Are you crazy? I’d sure hate to shoot you down; but I’m goin’ to if you don’t give in. What’re you goin’ to do with that girl?”
“Marry her, if she’ll have me.”
The foreman swore a terrible oath. “You can’t steal a girl like that.”