This was
his crowd, and his mind was quick to grasp the opportunity.
"There's the man who did it," he shouted, his arm flung out toward
Westcott. "I saw him shoot. See, that's his gun lying on the floor.
Don't let the murderer get away!"
He started forward, an oath on his lips, and the excited crowd surged
after, growling anger. Then the mass of them seemed suddenly rent
asunder, and the marshal ploughed his way through heedlessly, his hat
gone, and a blue-barrelled gun in either hand. He swept the muzzle of
one of these into the bartender's face menacingly, his eyes searching
the maddened crowd.
"Wait a minute, you," he commanded sharply. "I reckon I've got
something to say 'bout this. Put down that axe, Mike, or ye'll never
draw another glass o' beer in this camp. You know me, lads, an' I
never draw except fer business. Shut your mouth, Lacy; don't touch
that gun, you fool! I am in charge here--this is my job; and if there
is going to be any lynching done, it will be after you get me. Stand
back now; all of you--yes, get out into that barroom.
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