Lacy, staggering as though drunk, managed to attain his feet, hate, the desire for revenge, yielding him strength.

This was his crowd, and his mind was quick to grasp the opportunity.
"There's the man who did it," he shouted, his arm flung out toward Westcott.

"I saw him shoot.

See, that's his gun lying on the floor.
Don't let the murderer get away!" He started forward, an oath on his lips, and the excited crowd surged after, growling anger.

Then the mass of them seemed suddenly rent asunder, and the marshal ploughed his way through heedlessly, his hat gone, and a blue-barrelled gun in either hand.