"You will, will you! Let me tell you, it's yourself that's goin' to be
taken, dead or alive, and not for any common 'drunk and disorderly,'
either! You-all are goin' to swing, you are! Whoo-oo-ee-ee!"

Across the street, Tuttle had come out of the jail and was looking for
his friend. Ellhorn's peculiar yell came bellowing from the saloon,
and he knew that trouble of some sort was brewing. Dysert and Chavez
saw him leaping across the street, and rushed into the back room and
slammed the door as he entered at the front. With a glance Tuttle took
in the group of men with tense, excited faces, gathered at one side of
the room, Ellhorn, with a revolver in each hand, at the other, and the
saloon-keeper emerging from underneath the bar.

"Nick, you 're drinkin' again! Put up your guns!" Tom exclaimed
angrily.

"After 'em, Tommy! They went in there! Whoo-oo-ee-ee!" yelled Nick,
rushing toward the middle door. It gave before his weight and he
dashed in. Tuttle followed, not knowing what was happening, yet sure
that his friend was daring some danger. But the room was empty.
Through the back door Dysert and his companion had gained a corral,
into which opened several other houses, and in some one of these had
disappeared and found concealment.

"Huh!" grunted Nick. "Tom, if you'd only had sense enough to stay away
a minute longer I 'd have got both of 'em myself!"

They started forth on another raid, but the members of the Dysert gang
seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. Neither in the