"Not a step, you!" he muttered. "What's the matter, Lacy? Do you want
to die in your tracks? Mike, all I desire is an excuse to make you the
deadest bung-starter in Colorado. Put down that gun, Carter! If just
one of you lads come through that door, I'll plug these twelve shots,
and you know how I shoot--Lacy will get the first one, and Mike the
second. Stand there now! Go on out, Jim; I'm right along with you."
They were far from free even outside the swinging doors and in the
sunshine. Already a rumour of what had occurred had spread like
wildfire, and men were on the street, eager enough to take some hand in
the affray. A few were already about the steps, while others were
running rapidly toward them, excited but uncertain.
It was this uncertainty which gave the little marshal his one slender
chance. His eyes swept the crowd, but there was no face visible on
whom he could rely in this emergency. They were the roughs of the
camp, the idlers, largely parasites of Lacy; those fellows would only
hoot him if he asked for help.
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