Lacy leaped from the platform to the ground, shouting his orders, and the crowd surged after him in pursuit, some choosing the alley, others the street.

Revolvers cracked sharply, little spits of smoke showing in the sunlight; men shouted excitedly, and two mounted cowboys lashed their ponies up the dusty road in an effort to head off the fugitives.
Twice the two turned and fired, yet at that, hardly paused in their race.

Westcott held back, retarded by the shorter legs of his companion, nevertheless they were fully a hundred feet in advance of their nearest pursuers when they reached the hotel.

In spite of Lacy's urging the cowardly crew exhibited small desire to close in.

The marshal, glancing back over his shoulder, grinned cheerfully.
"We've got 'em beat, Jim," he panted, "less thar's others headin' us off; run like a white-head; don't mind me." The road ahead was clear, except for the speeding cowboys, and the marshal made extremely quick work of them.