along in good fellowship, the difficulties of their situation having been amicably adjusted.
As they approached town Moore noted the unusual activity around the depot, remarking on it to Hughes. They quickened their pace out of curiosity to find what it was about.
"Looks like a riot," said Hughes.
"Um-m-m," said Moore, tight-lipped and straightbacked, lifting himself in his stirrups to see.
"They's draggin' a woman along there," said Hughes, spurring his horse to a gallop.
"By God! that's my girl!" said Moore, and they rode abreast at a thundering pace up the white stretch of road, hands on their weapons, leaning in their saddles, their faces set for a fight.
They whirled at MacKinnon's hotel and dashed to the depot, galloping up the sloping platform and into the crowd, the ruffians who were manhandling Zora scuttling for their lives. Moore flung out of the saddle beside her, gun in hand, and gathered her into the protection of his arm.
"What're you up to here, you skimmin's of hell!" he bellowed, gun raised to spot the hide of the first man to make a break.
Zora clung to him, panting, dishevelled from her fight, her face scratched, hair tumbling over her shoulders, her hat gone, the throat of her shirt torn open. She pointed down the platform where a knot of men stood around Dunham, undecided on whether to stand or scatter. She was so agitated and breathless she couldn't find her words.
