“Stand aside or I’ll shoot!”
It was a girl’s voice, clear and firm. Mary had been the first to realize that Black’s friends, not Langford’s, had joined in the struggle. She snatched her revolver from her cowboy belt—she had not been without either since the Lazy S was burned—and cried out her challenge. Glancing quickly from the gleaming barrel to the determined face of the young girl, the men let go their hold of Langford and fell back precipitately.
Instantly, Langford sprang forward, but Black had made good use of his moment of grace. Swinging his arms to the right and left, he had beaten his way to the window, when Langford again seized him, but he had the advantage this time and he tore himself loose, throwing Langford violently against the window-casing. With his bare, clinched fist, he shivered the glass and leaped out—into the arms of Jim Munson.
The officers made gallant plunges through the stampeded crowd in their efforts to get clear of the room to follow the fugitive. But certain men managed to keep themselves clumsily, but with marvellous adroitness nevertheless, between the deputies and the doors and windows; so that several moments elapsed before the outside was finally gained.
Meanwhile, Jim struggled heroically with the outlaw. Black was far superior to him in weight and strength of limb, but Jim was quick and tough and daring. Expelled from the court room, he had been watching through the window. He had seen Mary’s quick action and his Boss’s splendid attack. He had also seen the little “gun play” and his eyes glowed in admiration of “Williston’s little girl,” though his generous heart ached for love of the woman who was not for him. He saw Black coming. He was ready for him. He grappled with him at once. If the Boss or the officers would only come now!
When they did come, they found Jim stretched at length on the frozen ground. He sat up slowly.
“You’re too late, boys,” he said; “the hoss thief was too much for me. He’s gone.”
It was true. The little street stretched before them still—deserted. Early twilight was coming on. The biting cold struck them broadside. The deputies scattered in vain pursuit.
[CHAPTER XXI—THE MOVING SHADOW]
“I’d rather not talk about it to-night. I’m not equal to it. It’s—too—too it’s devilish, Paul. I don’t seem to be able to grasp it. I can’t think about it with any coherence. I was so sure—so sure.”