Another shot directed their eyes to the rock behind which the fugitive or fugitives must be hiding.
From its concealment, a figure edged into view. There appeared to be only one.
"Poor devil—sure is done for," commented Marlin. "Must be public enemy number one, to judge by the number in the posse. Look! There he goes!"
Crouching close to the ground, the overalled figure dodged from cover to cover, each fleeting appearance bringing a fusillade of shots from the converging squads. He replied with a couple of bursts from his own weapon, then fell on his stomach behind a rock and commenced reloading.
Perhaps it was because their experience had prejudiced them against all forces of law; perhaps it was merely sympathy with the underdog, that impelled Sally and Marlin to pull mentally for the fugitive.
"That's no protection!" breathed Sally. "They'll have him between a crossfire. Why doesn't he make a dash for it?"
"Where'll he dash?" queried Marlin.
For answer, Sally opened the door a crack and called sharply, "Here!"
The outlaw glanced desperately over his shoulder, then, crouching and dodging, he made a zig-zag retreat up the hill. A rattle of shots accompanied this daring retreat. It was incredible that such an open target could escape the murderous bullets coming from all directions.
A final spurt and the fugitive fell sprawling across the threshold. Marlin dragged him inside as Sally slammed and bolted the door. Blood spurted from a neck wound and the outlaw clutched at his side, groaning.