At that fall the six men scampered from beneath the table to seize the downed man.

There was no need of their haste.

Sheriff Anderson was a wreck rather than a fighting man.

One arm was horribly crumpled beneath him; his ribs were shattered, there was a great gash where the rung of the chair had cut into the bone like a knife.
They stood chattering about the fallen man, straightening him out, feeling his pulse, making sure that he, who would soon hang at the will of the law, was alive.

Outside, voices were rushing toward them, doors slamming.
Bull Hunter broke through the circle, bent over the limp body, and drew a big bundle of keys from a pocket.