t some indistinguishable object in the middle of the street. The
live assassin was far less interesting than the fallen officer, for Dick
Goodloe was the town marshal; an honest, sober, efficient fellow whom
everyone admired for his adherence to duty. Not three minutes had passed
since the shot split the warm, still air. Before, the town had seemed
only half alive; a few people on the street, a few men in the store
doors, a few loitering negroes. Now a seething mass of humanity of all
ages was congregated in front of the post-office, almost from curb to
curb, and those who had first reached the marshal were so pushed upon
and hampered that they could do nothing.

John was in his office when the unmistakable sound came spitefully
through his window, and caused him to seize his hat and run down stairs.
The mishap had occurred at the other end of the square, and when he
reached the scene it was to find his way blocked by a human wall.

"Get out of my way!" he called, in a loud, clear voice, and begun
pushing his body in, using his hands, elbows and knees irrespective of
who they touched. "Stand back! You'll smother him! Back! Back!" he
commanded, and the stern voice carried weight. They made room for him,
and directly he was kneeling by the prostrate form. A brief examination
showed him it was bad enough. A ball through the man's right side, with
blood spouting from the wound.

"Where does he live?" he asked, quickly, turning his head and looking
up half savagely. "How far?"

"Half mile, I reck'n, anyhow," answered a bystander, with his hands in
his pockets.

"Lift his feet; I'll take his head and shoulders," said Glenning, to a
determined looking man in front of him. "Into the drug store yonder.
It's quick work now, or he's gone!"

They came up with Goodloe's weight between them. The crowd was apathetic
with curiosity.

"Back!--damn you!" gritted John Glenning, his patience leaving him at
the asinine stupidity of the class with which he was surrounded. The
lower element of Macon, which formed the inner line of that congested
caldron of people, had begun to press forward again to get a glimpse of
the senseless form which many of them had seen daily all their lives.
They gave, half in fear; a lane was opened, and Dick Goodloe was carried
across the street into the drug store.

"Lock your door!" ordered Glenning, then he was coolly removing clothing
and calling for this and that, and battling with all the skill that