Quintell put up a trembling hand. His face was ashen, drawn with fear. “Men, he’s got me. Stop, men! He’s got me! Can’t you see? Stand back! For God’s sake, men, stand back!” he panted wildly.
The mob halted its forward rush—frenzied, baffled. It circled just out of arm’s reach of the trio, a solid mass of surging, lawless humanity that itched for the letting of blood, gripping their murderous weapons, filling the night with their cries and curses. Like stampeded cattle, they milled and strained around the three, shouting their foul threats and insults at the girl and the outlaw, reassuring their master, waiting with wolfish eagerness for the moment when they could fall upon their prey and destroy it.
“Fellers,” proclaimed Billy Gee, his tones cool and deliberate, “this here is a personal matter ’twixt me an’ him. His name ain’t Quintell. It’s Gene Miles. He robbed the Marysville city treasury three years ago an’ laid the job on me. Gangway, men, gangway!” he added, starting Quintell onward.
“He lies! He lies!” cried Harrison, shouldering his way to the front. “This is Billy Gee, the bandit. He held us up—burglarized Jule Quintell’s home. He’s taking him down to the office to make him open the safe. Are you going to let him get away with it, men? Are you letting him pull off this rough stuff before your eyes, in a civilized community? One man against a thousand? Are you going to stand for——”
“Talk to ’em, Miles! Talk to ’em!” threatened Billy Gee. “Tell ’em to fall back an’ let us through. You’ll go before I do, Miles. I got a bead on yore heart. I’ll be good for one bullet—maybe more.”
Again, the broker called on that frantic crowd, supplicated it vehemently in an agony of terror. Snarling its hatred, its ranks parted grudgingly, then closed in behind where Dot brought up the rear with Billy Gee’s other revolver tight gripped in her hand.
Carried away by the desperateness of the outlaw’s plight, Dot had whisked the six-shooter from the holster of her romantic hero, resolved to back him in his fight, to perish with him, if necessary. Just now, she kept her gun trained on the bank of vicious faces that crowded after her. There was a fire in her eyes and a determination on her pretty face, far more eloquent than any words.
They turned into the main street finally, and continued on down, moving slowly, the multitude pressing in on them, raging around them, menacing them still. They passed the great heap of débris which had once represented the home of the Geerusalem Searchlight. As they reached the corner, out of the cross street dashed a troop of cow-punchers, with Sheriff Warburton at their head. Others followed, thundering down upon the mob from front and rear, scores of the grim-faced riders of the range waiting only for the signal to open fire on the enemy.
“Men of Geerusalem, as sheriff of San Buenaventura County, I order you to disperse!” shouted Warburton in ominous tones.
The mob halted. It stood hemmed in by mounted men, surrender being the only alternative left it, save that of bloody resistance. There was a tense, heavy silence.