"You've got ter do it, Bob," announced the marshal, shortly, "dead er

alive."

Hampton never hesitated. "I 'm sorry I met you. I don't want to get

anybody else mixed up in this fuss. If you'll promise me a chance for

my life, Buck, I 'll throw up my hands. But I prefer a bullet to a

mob."

The little marshal was sandy-haired, freckle-faced, and all nerve. He

cast one quick glance to left and right. The crowd jammed within the

Occidental had already turned and were surging toward the door; the

hotel opposite was beginning to swarm; down the street a throng of men

was pouring forth from the Miners' Retreat, yelling fiercely, while

hurrying figures could be distinguished here and there among the

scattered buildings, all headed in their direction. 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.

Hampton began to understand the purpose of his companion, the quick,

unerring instinct which had led him to select the one suitable spot

where the successful waging of battle against such odds was

possible--the deserted dump of the old Shasta mine.

With every nerve strained to the uttermost, the two men raced side by

side down the steep slope, ploughed through the tangled underbrush, and

toiled up the sharp ascent beyond. Already their pursuers were

crowding the more open spaces below, incited by that fierce craze for

swift vengeance which at times sweeps even the law-abiding off their

feet. Little better than brutes they came howling on, caring only in

this moment to strike and slay. The whole affair had been like a flash

of fire, neither pursuers nor pursued realizing the half of the story

in those first rapid seconds of breathless action. But back yonder lay

a dead man, and every instinct of the border demanded a victim in

return.




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