They lacked leadership, for the little marshal never once took his eye off Lacy.

At the door he turned, walking backward, trusting in Westcott to keep their path clear, both levelled revolvers ready for any movement.
He knew Haskell, and he knew the character of these hangers-on at the "Red Dog." He realised fully the influence of Bill Lacy, and comprehended that the affair was far from being ended; but just now he had but one object before him--to get his prisoner safely outside into the open.

Beyond that he would trust to luck, and a fair chance.

His grey eyes were almost black as they gleamed over the levelled revolver barrels, and his clipped moustache fairly bristled.
"Not a step, you!" he muttered.

"What's the matter, Lacy?
Do you want to die in your tracks?
Mike, all I desire is an excuse to make you the deadest bung-starter in Colorado.