re headed in the right direction,
keep going!"

But the man lingered, while Moran, as lightly as a cat, despite his
great bulk and the liquor he carried, sprang to the nearest window. Far
up the street, he could distinguish a huddled mass, pierced by flashes
of fire, which he took to be horsemen; as he watched, he heard scattered
shots and a faint sound of yelling. The one hasty glance told him all
that he needed to know; he had not thought this move would come so soon,
but luck seemed to be against him all around. Something of a fatalist,
in the final analysis, he no longer wasted time in anger or regrets. He
was not particularly alarmed, and would not have been so could he have
known the truth, that the yelling he had heard marked the passing of Tug
Bailey, who had confessed but had made his confession too late to please
the crowd, which had him in its power. Nevertheless, Moran realized that
there was no time now to form his men into anything like organized
resistance. The enemy had caught him napping, and the jig was up. He had
seen the vigilantes work before, and he knew that if he intended to save
his own skin he must act quickly. When he turned from the window, short
though the interval had been, he had formed a plan of escape.

"They've brought every man they could rake up," Jed added. "I reckon
they've combed every ranch in the county to start this thing."

Moran looked up quickly, struck by the significance of the remark. If it
were true, and it probably was, then Wade's ranch also would be
deserted. He half opened his mouth, as though to confide in his
companion, when he evidently concluded to keep his own counsel.

"All right," he said simply. "I guess there's still plenty of time. I've
got a good horse at the lower end of the street. Take care of yourself.
So long!"

The man clattered down the stairs, and Moran turned to his desk, from
which he took some papers and a roll of money, which he stuffed into his
pockets. In the hallway he paused for a moment to examine a wicked
looking revolver, which he took from his hip pocket; for, contrary to
the custom of the country, he did not wear his gun openly in a holster.
Convinced that the weapon was in good working order, he walked calmly
down to the street, sobered completely by this sudden call on his
reserve powers.

His horse, a large, rawboned gray, was where he had left it, and shaking
his fist in the direction of the vigilantes, he mounted and rode off