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"Then both him and her beats it like the mill-tails of hell! And that part's natural enough, him figuring he's killed the sheriff, and her figuring she's plumb killed you. They stampeded into the brush, ducking out toward the timber-lands where it was darkest, a bunch of hollering fools after them."

"And Jim Taggart?"

The "boys" whose presence Billy Winch had requested came hurrying in at the hall door, excitement and alarm shining in their eyes. One glance reassured them, and while Dick Ross gave expression to his relief in a windy sigh and sought hastily for materials to build him a cigarette to replace that which he had dropped as he raced here, Charley Peters stood and mopped at his forehead with an enormous dingy blue handkerchief and grinned. Billy Winch, who had the trick of pithy brevity when there was need of it, made his wants known sharply, and the two men, their spurs still dragging and clanking after them, hastened away for basin and soap and whatever else of Winch's first-aid materials might be had at hand. In the meantime, Winch was yanking a sheet off Lynette Brooke's bed, and ripping it into tatters for his bandages and rags and what he termed "mops and applications."