They ain't any other way they can get out of here.
Pass that down the line, Mat." Before the whisper had trailed out half its course, a woman screamed in the house.

It sent a jag of lightning through the brain of Vic Gregg; he started up.
"Get down," commanded the sheriff 'curtly.

"Or they'll plant you." "For God's sake, Pete, he's killin' his wife--an'-- he's gone mad--I seen it comin' in his eyes!" "Shut up," muttered Glass, "an' listen." A pulse of sound floated out to them, and stopped the breath of Gregg; it was a deep, stifled sobbing.
"She's begged him to stay with her; he's gone," said the sheriff.

"Now it'll come quick." But the sheriff was wrong.

There was not a sound, not a sign of a rush.
Presently: "What sort of a lass is she, Gregg ?" "All yaller hair, Pete, and the softes' blue eyes you ever see." The sheriff made no answer, but Vic saw the little bony hand tense about the barrel of the rifle.