McCalmont grabbed me by the arm to hold me back.
"You fool," he hissed through his teeth, "come on—there's not a moment to lose—or them wolves will get you! Curly! Curly, come out, you, and fetch Chalkeye's gun. Chalkeye, you come quick."
Curly came running from the little hind room with our guns, while McCalmont rushed me to the kitchen. "Here," he said, "hold this sack for grub!"
"Not them meat balls," says I; "meat balls is out of season."
"All right," he laughed, pitching a half-sack of flour into the bag which I held, then a side of bacon, and such other truck as was handy. "Curly, you knows whar to take this man?"
"Come along," says Curly. And I followed tame, with the sack on my shoulder until we gained the woods.
"Back!" says Curly sudden, and dodged for cover, while I dropped flat behind a fallen tree. Looking from under, I saw Ryan come surging past in front of us, screeching like all possessed, the smell-dogs at his tail, and the robbers swarming close behind.
"A near thing that," says Curly, when they had passed; "creep through under the log."
I crept through with my sack, and she followed.
"Lie low," she said; "we're hidden here from the ranche until we can run some more. Get out yo' gun."