Lige and Schofield fired again, and one of the rescuers staggered.

Nevertheless, as the two men slid down from the roof, the burdened Cross-Readers were seen to break into a run; and at that, with another yell, fiercer, wilder, more joyous than the first, the Plattville men followed.
The yell rang loudly in the ears of old Wilkerson, who had remained back in the road, and at the same instant he heard another shout behind him.
Mr.Wilkerson had not shared in the attack, but, greatly preoccupied with his own histrionic affairs, was proceeding up the pike alone--except for the unhappy yellow mongrel, still dragged along by the slip-noose--and alternating, as was his natural wont, from one fence to the other; crouching behind every bush to fire an imaginary rifle at his dog, and then springing out, with triumphant bellowings, to fall prone upon the terrified animal.

It was after one of these victories that a shout of warning was raised behind him, and Mr.Wilkerson, by grace of the god Bacchus, rolling out of the way in time to save his life, saw a horse dash by him--a big, black horse whose polished flanks were dripping with lather.

Warren Smith was the rider.

He was waving a slip of yellow paper high in the air.
He rode up the slope, and drew rein beyond the burning buildings, just ahead of those foremost in the pursuit.