Judging from the noise, one would say at least half a dozen men were engaged, and Jet said to himself:
"The men from Albany are taking a hand in the row, probably firing from the windows. If they could wipe the whole gang out there wouldn't be any need for me to try to strike a telegraph office."
He could not afford to await the result of the contest, however, for if his friends were worsted just so much valuable time would be lost, and he pressed on at full speed until, when he was near the spot where he began his first journey, there was a rustling of the foliage in front of him as a voice cried:
"Hold up or I'll fire!"
That this threat was made by one of the gang from whom he was trying to escape there could be no question, and Jet darted aside quickly as he cocked his revolver.
This had hardly been done when he saw a long tongue of flame leap out of the bushes at the right, not more than ten feet away, and a bullet whistled so near his ear that he could hear it shrieking like a minnie ball.
If he could wound one of these fellows matters would be just so much better for his friends, and jumping behind the trunk of a tree he fired every chamber of his revolver as rapidly as possible.
Not until the weapon was emptied did he start on his course again, shoving cartridges in the chambers as he ran, and followed by a volley of shots.
It was evident he had not done any damage, and once more he wheeled and fired.
There was no reply to this last fusillade, and he continued the flight, straining every muscle to outdistance the enemy in case an attempt should be made to follow him.