She spoke quickly, words tumbling out pell-mell. “You must hurry—hurry! When they heard that shot—Listen! There’s some one coming. Oh, run, run!”
Her staccato warning deflected his mind from the course toward which it might have turned. He held up his head, listening. The slap of footsteps on a board walk could be plainly heard. A voice lifted itself in question into the night. The door of Dolan’s opened and let out a fan-shaped shaft of light. The figures of men could be seen as they surged across the lit space into the darkness. June had spoken the truth. He must hurry if he was to escape. To shoot again now would be to advertise the spot where he was.
He wrenched his arm from her fingers and ran. He moved as awkwardly as a bear, but he covered ground swiftly. In a few seconds the night had swallowed him.
Instantly the girl was beside Dillon, on her knees, lifting his head into her arms. “Oh, Bob—Bob!” she wailed.
He opened his eyes.
“Where did he hit you?” she cried softly.
His face was puzzled. He did not yet realize what had taken place. “Hit me—who?”
“That Houck. He shot you. Oh, Bob, are you much hurt?”
Dillon was recalled to a pain in his intestines. He pressed his hand against the cartridge belt.
“It’s here,” he said weakly.