Lacy led them, animated by the one desire to
kill Westcott, fully aware that this alone would prevent the exposure
of his own crime.
"There they go!" he yelled madly, and fired. "Get that dirty murderer,
boys--get him!"
There were a dozen shots, but the two runners plunged about the corner
of the building, and disappeared, apparently untouched. Lacy leaped
from the platform to the ground, shouting his orders, and the crowd
surged after him in pursuit, some choosing the alley, others the
street. Revolvers cracked sharply, little spits of smoke showing in
the sunlight; men shouted excitedly, and two mounted cowboys lashed
their ponies up the dusty road in an effort to head off the fugitives.
Twice the two turned and fired, yet at that, hardly paused in their
race. Westcott held back, retarded by the shorter legs of his
companion, nevertheless they were fully a hundred feet in advance of
their nearest pursuers when they reached the hotel. In spite of Lacy's
urging the cowardly crew exhibited small desire to close in. The
marshal, glancing back over his shoulder, grinned cheerfully.
Pages:
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257