Houck leaped for the door of the hotel. Bob was at his heels, in a panic to reach safety.
A child’s scream rang out. Dillon turned. The school children were in wild flight, but one fair-haired little girl stood as though paralyzed in the middle of the road. She could not move out of the path of the wild beast bearing down upon her.
Instinctively Bob’s mind functioned. The day was warm and his coat hung over an arm. He stepped into the road as the brindle bull came opposite the hotel. The coat was swung out expertly and dropped over the animal’s head. The cowpuncher slipped to his knees, arms tightening and fingers feeling for the throat of the writhing brute struggling blindly.
Its snapping jaws just missed his hand. Man and dog rolled over into the dust together. Its hot breath fanned Bob’s face. Again he was astride of the dog. His fingers had found its throat at last. They tightened, in spite of its horrible muscular contortions to get free.
There came a swish of skirts, the soft pad of running feet. A girl’s voice asked, “What shall I do?”
It did not at that moment seem strange to Dillon that June was beside him, her face quick with tremulous anxiety. He spoke curtly, as one who gives orders, panting under the strain of the effort to hold the dog.
“My gun.”
She picked the forty-five up from where it had fallen. Their eyes met. The girl did swiftly what had to be done. It was not until she was alone in her room half an hour later that the thought of it made her sick.
Bob rose, breathing deep. For an instant their eyes held fast. She handed him the smoking revolver. Neither of them spoke.
From every door, so it seemed, people poured and converged toward them. Excited voices took up the tale, disputed, explained, offered excuses. Everybody talked except June and Bob.