There was a crash of falling glass, and as
two or three guns exploded the figure leaped down outside the house.
"Follow him!"
"Who was that?"
"Get a light! Who's got a match?"
Half the men rushed out of the room to pursue that fleeing figure. The
other half remained to see what had happened. It seemed impossible
that Whistling Dan had escaped from their midst. Half a dozen sulphur
matches spurted little jets of blue flame and discovered four men
lying prone on the floor, most of them with the wind trampled from
their bodies, but otherwise unhurt. One of them was the sheriff.
He lay with his shoulders propped against the wall. His mouth was a
mass of blood.
"Who got you, Rogers?"
"Where's Barry?"
"The jail, the jail!" groaned Rogers. "Barry has gone for the jail!"
Revolvers rattled outside.
"He's gone for Haines," screamed the deputy. "Go get him, boys!"
"How can he get Haines? He ain't got the keys."
"He has, you fools! When he shot the lights out he jumped for me and
knocked me off the chair. Then he went through my pockets and got the
keys. Get on your way! Quick!"
The lynchers, yelling with rage, were already stamping from the room.
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