"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.