McClintock, bending low, scanned the faces which were raised towards them.
“The whole township's here. I don't know one in ten,” he said, straightening up.
“I wish I could manage to run over a few,” muttered the doctor, savagely.
As they neared the forks of the road Dr. Emory pulled in his horses. A heavy farm-wagon blocked the way, and the driver was stolidly indifferent alike to his entreaties and to McClintock's threat to break his head for him if he didn't move on. They were still shouting at him, when a savage cry swelled up from the throats of those in advance. The murderer was being brought in from the east road.
“The brutes!” muttered the doctor, and he turned helplessly to McClintock. “What are we going to do? What can we do?”
By way of answer McClintock stood up.
“I wish I could see Jim.”
But Jim had taken the west road three hours be-fore, and was driving towards Barrow's Saw Mills as fast as McElroy's best team could take him. When he reached there it was enough to make one's blood run cold to hear the good man curse.
“You wait here, doctor,” cried McClintock. “You can't get past, and they seem to be coming this way now.”
“Look out for yourself, Milt!”