Antone, Struve's got a
shotgun!"
Antone cursed, and with the snarl of his voice came the clatter of a
revolver slammed down on the bar. Galloway cursed and fired, emptying
his second gun, crazed with hatred and blind anger. Again, shot for
shot Norton answered him. And again it grew very silent in the Casa
Blanca.
"Out through the window, one by one, with your hands up and your guns
down," shouted Struve; "or I start in. Which is it, boys?"
There was a scramble to obey, the several men who had taken no part
leading the way. As they went out their forms were for a moment
clearly outlined, then swallowed up in the outer darkness. At Struve's
command they lined up against the wall, watched over by the muzzle of
his shotgun. Antone, crying out that he was coming, followed. Elmer
Page, sick and dizzy, was at Antone's heels.
Tom Cutter had gathered up some dry grass, and with that and a
chance-found bit of wood started a blaze near the second window; in its
wavering, uncertain light the faces of the men stood out whitely.
"Galloway is not here yet," he snapped. And, lifting his voice: "Come
on, Galloway."
A crowd had gathered in the street, asking questions that went
unanswered. Other hands added fuel to Cutter's fire. The increasing
light at last penetrated the blackness filling the barroom.
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