There was death in it.
The gun man whirled, drawing like lightning. In the Court House door, Cleve Whitmore with his sister’s limp form on his shoulder, beat him to it.
He had drawn as he called. Before the words were off his lips he pulled the trigger and shot Wylackie through the heart.
As his henchman fell Courtrey’s good hand flashed to his hip, but Dixon of the Vigilantes, shot out an arm and knocked him forward from behind.
For the second time Courtrey had missed a life because a brave heart dared him. Old Pete had paid the price for that trick. Dixon had no thought of it.
And in one moment the chance was past, for a sound began to roar from that silent crowd which had poured from the courtroom––the deep, bloodcurdling sound of the mob forming, inarticulate, uncertain.
For the first time in his life Courtrey felt real fear grip him.
He had killed and stolen and wronged among these people and gotten away with it. He had never feared them. They had been silent. Now with the first deep rumble from the concrete throat of Lost Valley he got his first instinctive thrill of disaster. 265
He stood for a moment in utter silence. Then he flung up his hands, snapped out an order, whirled on his heel and went swiftly to the near rack where stood Bolt and the rest of the Ironwoods. Like a set of puppets on strings his men drew after him––and they left Wylackie Bob where he fell.
In a matter of seconds the whole Stronghold gang was mounted and clattering down the street––out of the town toward the open range.