There was a fluttering suggestion of acquiescence in the stillness that followed Garner's words. But other obstacles were to arise. A clatter of galloping horses was heard round the corner on the nearest side street, and three men, evidently mountaineers, rode madly up. They reined in their panting, snorting mounts.
“What's the matter?” one of them asked, with an oath. “What are you waiting for? That's the damned black devil.”
“They are waiting, like reasonable human beings, to give this man a chance to establish his innocence,” Carson cried, firmly.
“They are, damn you, are they?” the same voice retorted. There was a pause; the horseman raised his arm; a revolver gleamed in the moonlight; there was a flash and a report. The crowd saw Carson Dwight suddenly lean to one side and raise his hands to the side of his head.
“My God, he's shot!” Garner called out. “Who fired that gun?”
For an instant horrified silence reigned; Carson still stood pressing his hands to his temple.
No one spoke; the three restive horses were rearing and prancing about in excitement. Garner made his way through the crowd, elbowing them right and left, till he stood near the fugitive and his defender.