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.