“Stop, Mr. Reivers, or I’ll shoot!”
Then the roar of a shot. He felt the hands loosen on his throat, swayed and fell sidewise as the whole world turned black.
He opened his eyes soon and saw by the light of the rising flames that Campbell was running toward him. In the doorway of the office stood the girl, her left hand over her eyes, Campbell’s big black revolver in her right. Down the road, with strange, drunken steps, Reivers was running toward the river. Behind him ran half a dozen men armed with axes screaming his name in rage, but Reivers, despite his queer gait, was distancing his pursuers. It was some time before Toppy grasped the significance of these sights. Then he remembered.
“You—you saved me,” he said clumsily, rising to his feet. The girl dropped the revolver and burst into a fit of sobbing.
“’Twas aye handy I thought of giving her the gun and telling her to keep the door locked,” said Campbell. “Do you go in, lassie. All’s well. Go in.”
“Eh? What’s this?” he cried, for in spite of her sobbing she drew sharply away from his sheltering arm as he tried to usher her indoors.
The smoke from the fire swept down into their faces in a choking cloud. Toppy looked toward the stockade. By this time the whole end of the great building was in flames. The men in pursuit of Reivers were howling as they gained on their quarry, and Toppy lurched after them.
“Bob! Mr. Treplin!”
Toppy stopped.
“I mean—Mr. Treplin—you—don’t go down there—you’re hurt—please!”