ow, and with each passing minute she found it harder and harder to
restrain her impatience. Would he never come? What if the window had
been guarded unknown to Stork? What if Stork's horse had broken loose or
been moved by someone passing through the alley? What if--a
bloodcurdling yell split the darkness. And with a thunder of hoofs, an
indistinguishable shape whirled out of the alley. A crash of shots
drowned the thunder of hoofs as from the plunging shape darted thin red
streaks of flame. Straight into the crowd it plunged. For a fleeting
instant the girl caught a glimpse of bodies in confused motion, as the
men surged back from its impact. Above the sound of the guns shrill
cries of fear and hoarse angry curses split the air.

As Ike Stork had predicted, the Texan had "come a-shootin'."

CHAPTER VIII

THE ESCAPE

Alice had pressed forward until her horse stood at the very edge of the
seething melee. Swiftly, objects took definite shape in the starlight.
Men rushed past her cursing. The marshal lay upon the ground shrieking
contradictory orders, while over him stood the outraged Barras, reviling
him for permitting his man to escape. Other men were shooting, and
between the sounds of the shots the voice of Ike Stork could be heard
loudly bewailing the loss of his horse. Hoof beats sounded behind her,
and glancing backward, Alice could see men mounting the half-dozen
horses that stood saddled before the store and the livery barn. As a
man, already in the saddle, urged the others to hurry he raised his gun
and fired in the direction the Texan had taken.

"They'll kill him!" thought the girl. "No matter how fast his horse is,
those bullets fly faster!" Another shot followed the first, and acting
on the impulse of the moment, with the one thought to save the Texan
from harm, she struck her horse down the flank and shot out into the
trail behind the fleeing cowpuncher. "They won't dare to shoot, now,"
she sobbed as she urged her horse to his best, while in her ears rang a
confusion of cries that she knew were directed at her. Leaning far
forward, she shouted encouragement to her straining animal. In vain her
eyes sought to pierce the darkness for a glimpse of the Texan. Her horse
took a shallow ford in a fountain of spray. A patch of woods slipped
behind, and she knew she was on the trail that led to the Missouri, and
the flat-boat ferry of Long Bill Kearney. She wondered whether Tex would
hold to the trail, o