"What's the matter, honey? What have they been doin' to my girl?" Moore inquired, glaring around for somebody to plug with his big gun, which he held high and ready, a weapon of such deadly menace that the crowd thinned away like snowflakes on a hot stove.
"Bill Dunham!" she panted, pointing wildly. "They shot him—they're goin' to hang him! Don't let them! don't let them!"
"Bill Dunham?" said Hughes, bending down to hear her repeat the name, as if the sound of it astonished him beyond belief.
"Down there—the liveryman and that gang!"
Hughes started his horse with a bound, and bore down on the lynchers like the California Limited. He had his gun out, held shoulder-high, ready for as deadly business as any of that crowd ever had faced.
The liveryman was holding the bucket and dipper, Dunham's drenched form on the planks before him, half a dozen others, who did not sense the meaning of this quick turn in time to clear out, or stood with a thought of making a fight to carry their infernal program to its end, stood around him with their various weapons. The rest of the crowd had scattered.
Hughes pulled up so close to the lanky liveryman he could have knocked him stiff with his gun. Moore left his horse standing and came running, Zora a good stride in the lead.
"You've made a mistake in your date, gentlemen," Hughes said. "This ain't Bill Dunham's day to hang."
