“What’ll happen?” asked Tony Jeffreys of the blacksmith as they sat at the corner of the hotel where they could survey the whole scene.
“I dunno,” said Peter Zinn, as he puffed at his pipe. “I guess it’s up to the constable to show them that he’s a hero. There he is now!”
The constable had suddenly dashed out of the door of Sam Donoghue’s house, directly facing the post office, followed by four others, in the hope that he might take the defenders by surprise. But when men defend their lives they are more watchful thar wolves in the hungry winter of the mountains. A Winchester spoke from a window of the post office the moment the forlorn hope appeared. The first bullet knocked the hat from the head of Harry Daniels and stopped him in his tracks. The second shot went wide. The third knocked the feet from under the constable and flattened him in the road. This was more than enough The remnant of the party took to it heels and regained shelter safely before the dust raised by his fall had cease curling above the prostrate body of the constable.
Tony Jeffreys had risen to his feel repeating over and over an oath of his childhood: “Jimminy whiskers! Jimminy whiskers! Jimminy whiskers! They’ve killed poor Tom Frejus!” But Peter Zinn, holding the trembling! eager body of Blondy between his hands, jutted forth his head an grinned in a savage warmth of contentment.
“He’s overdue!” was all he said.
But Tom Frejus was not dead. His leg had been broken between the knee and hip, but he now reared himself upon both hands and looked about him. He had covered the greater part of the road in his charge. It would be easier to escape from fire by crawling close under the shelter of the wall of the post office than by trying to get back to Donoghue’s house. Accordingly, he began to drag himself forward. had not covered a yard when the Winchester cracked again and Tom crumpled on his face, with both arms flung around his head.
Peter Zinn stood up with a gasp. Here was something quite different. The constable was beaten, broken, and he reminded Zinn of one thing only—old Gripper cowering against the fence with Blondy towering above, ready to kill. Blondy had been merciful, but the marked man behind the window was still intent on murder. His next bullet raised a white furrow of dust near Frejus. Then a wild voice, made thin and high by the extremity of fear and pain, came through the air and smote the heart Peter Zinn: “Help! For God’s sake, mercy!”
Tom Frejus was crushed indeed, and begging as Gripper had begged. A hundred voices were shouting with horror but no man dared venture out in the face of that cool-witted marksman. Then Peter Zinn knew the thing which he had been born to do, for which he had been granted strength of hand and courage of heart. He threw his long arms out before him as though he were running to embrace a bodiless thing; great wordless voice swelled in his breast and tore his throat; and he ran out toward the fallen constable.
Some woman’s voice was screaming: “Back! Go back, Peter! Oh, God! Stop him! Stop him!”