The work could wait; it would "keep" for five minutes.

They began to gather around him, excited, flushed, perspiring, and smelling of smoke.

Hartley Bowlder, won by Lige's desperation and intrepidity, was helping the latter tie up his head; no one else was hurt.
"What is it ?" they clamored impatiently.

"Speak quick!" There was another harmless shot from a fugitive, and then the Cross-Roaders, divining that the diversion was in their favor, secured themselves in their decrepit fastnesses and held their fire.

Meanwhile, the flames crackled cheerfully in Plattville ears.