I mean you,
Mike! This man is my prisoner, and, by God, I'll defend him. Ay! I'll
do more, I'll let him defend himself. Here, Westcott, pick up your gun
on the floor. Now stand here with me! We're going out through that
bunch, and if one of those coyotes puts a paw on you, let him have it."
The crowd made way, reluctantly enough, growling curses, but with no
man among them sufficiently reckless to attempt resistance. They
lacked leadership, for the little marshal never once took his eye off
Lacy. At the door he turned, walking backward, trusting in Westcott to
keep their path clear, both levelled revolvers ready for any movement.
He knew Haskell, and he knew the character of these hangers-on at the
"Red Dog." He realised fully the influence of Bill Lacy, and
comprehended that the affair was far from being ended; but just now he
had but one object before him--to get his prisoner safely outside into
the open. Beyond that he would trust to luck, and a fair chance. His
grey eyes were almost black as they gleamed over the levelled revolver
barrels, and his clipped moustache fairly bristled.
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