Billy Gee, followed by Dot, thrust Quintell forward until he stood at the sheriff’s stirrup.
“Hullo, Billy!” said Warburton curtly.
“Hullo, Bob!” replied Billy Gee. “Here’s yore man. What d’you want done with him?”
“Herd him on down to the hotel, an’ I’ll——”
“This is an outrage, sheriff,” broke from Quintell.
“Collusion!” cried Harrison, at the top of his lungs. “Warburton, I demand the arrest of Billy Gee, notorious outlaw and criminal at large. Men, they’re in cahoots! It’s a frame-up! A political frame-up!”
A sudden wave of fury swept over the massed body of the mob. Big George Rankin’s face glared murderously for one instant out of its depths.
“Altogether, gang! Give the cow-chasers hell!” he yelled, opening fire on the nearest riders as he spoke.
In a twinkling, the battle was on. The street was converted into a bloody arena reverberating with the roar of blazing six-shooters and the shouts and curses of frenzied men. Taking advantage of the moment, Billy Gee thrust Dot in front of him, and with Quintell leading the way, fled in a hail of bullets for the Miners’ Hotel. The conflict raged on fiercely, the mob fighting with desperate abandon to break through the cordon of mounted deputies. Up and down the main street dashed terrified horses, riderless. Other cow-punchers, thirsting to avenge their fellows’ deaths, filled up the ranks. The street became littered with dead and dying. Stubbornly, furiously, the Quintell element fought. Then Big George Rankin passed out, a curse on his lips.
Sheriff Warburton raised his voice over the tumult: