Hampton knew from
long experience what this meant; these were the quickly inflamed
cohorts of Judge Lynch--they would act first, and reflect later. His
square jaws set like a trap.
"All right, Bob," said the marshal. "You're my prisoner, and there 'll
be one hell of a fight afore them lads git ye. There's a chance
left--leg it after me."
Just as the mob surged out of the Occidental, cursing and struggling,
the two sprang forward and dashed into the narrow space between the
livery-stable and the hotel. Moffat chanced to be in the passage-way,
and pausing to ask no questions, Mason promptly landed that gentleman
on the back of his head in a pile of discarded tin cans, and kicked
viciously at a yellow dog which ventured to snap at them as they swept
past. Behind arose a volley of curses, the thud of feet, an occasional
voice roaring out orders, and a sharp spat of revolver shots. One ball
plugged into the siding of the hotel, and a second threw a spit of sand
into their lowered faces, but neither man glanced back. They were
running for their lives now, racing for a fair chance to turn at bay
and fight, their sole hope the steep, rugged hill in their front.
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