Blaze’s face was white in the yellow lamplight, his muscles tensed.
“Twenty seconds gone.”
The woman covered her face with her hands, and Butch Van Deen laughed harshly.
“Five seconds more.”
Blunk! It was a queer sound. The two barrels of the shotgun jerked upward, came a terrific concussion—darkness.
Both barrels of the heavy shotgun had sent their loads of shot into the big lamp, which illuminated the room, and the whole house shook from the concussion.
Blaze threw himself full length out of the chair, landing on his hands and knees. The woman screamed and fell over Blaze. Some one else stumbled into him, and he struck them with the barrel of his gun. A revolver lashed out a streak of fire, but it was not pointed in his direction.
The door flew open, and Blaze went out, like a quarterback going through a hole in the line for a touchdown.
Bullets were flying promiscuously, but Blaze headed for his horse. He saw Della swing on to her saddle, but the horse whirled wildly and flung her to the ground. Blaze didn’t know why he ran to her. She was one of Marsh’s gang, and in no danger, except for an accidental shot, but he ran to her in the dark, swung her up in his arms and ran to his horse.
He swung her up to the saddle, mounted quickly, twisting her around in his arms, and rode wildly away down the road toward Medicine Tree. He was half a mile from the ranch before he slackened speed.