"I've got five thirty-two-caliber shots
here, and I think I can put some of them where they ought to go."
She pushed the revolver down with her hand. "No, no!" she cried, "you
must not be reckless."
"I am a pretty good shot," he went on, bitterly, "and Toot Wambush
shall be my first target, if I can pick him out. Then the rest may do
what they like with me. You go home. It will do you no good to be
seen with me."
She caught his arm. "If you don't go, I'll stay right here with you.
Hush! Listen! What was--? Great Heavens, they are coming. Go! Go!"
She glided swiftly to the door, and he followed her. Coming along the
Hawkbill road, about an eighth of a mile distant, they saw a body of
horsemen, their heads and shoulders dressed in white. His revolver
slipped from his fingers and rang on a fallen anvil. He picked it up
mechanically, still staring into the moonlight. Again he wondered if
he were afraid, as he was that night at the hotel.
"Run! get out a horse," she cried. "Mr. Washburn is there; he will
help you! Go quick, for God's sake! I shall kill myself if they harm
you.
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