I don't want to get anybody else mixed up in this fuss.

If you'll promise me a chance for my life, Buck, I 'll throw up my hands.

But I prefer a bullet to a mob." The little marshal was sandy-haired, freckle-faced, and all nerve.

He cast one quick glance to left and right.

The crowd jammed within the Occidental had already turned and were surging toward the door; the hotel opposite was beginning to swarm; down the street a throng of men was pouring forth from the Miners' Retreat, yelling fiercely, while hurrying figures could be distinguished here and there among the scattered buildings, all headed in their direction.