The outlaws fell back from the stable, weapons smoking furiously. Blackwell broke into a run, never looking behind him, but Soapy and Bad Bill gave back foot by foot fighting every step of the way.
Dick and Curly rose from behind the rocks where they had been placed and closed the trap on Blackwell. The paroled convict let out one yell.
“I give up. Goddlemighty, don’t shoot!”
His rifle he had already thrown away. With his arms reaching above him, his terror-stricken eyes popping from his head, he was a picture of the most frightened “bad man” who had ever done business in Arizona.
Half way down the lane Cranston was hit. He sank to his knees, and from there lopped over sideways to his left elbow. In the darkness his voice could be heard, for the firing had momentarily ceased.
“They’ve got me, Soapy. Run for it. I’ll hold ’em back.”
“Hit bad, Bill?”
“I’m all in. Vamos!”
Stone turned to run, and for the first time saw that his retreat was cut off. As fast as he could pump the lever his rifle began working again.
The firing this time did not last more than five seconds. When the smoke cleared it was all over. Soapy lay on his back, shot through and through. Blackwell had taken advantage of the diversion to crawl through the strands of barbed wire and to disappear in the chaparral. Bill had rolled over on his face.