Bull saw the big guns twitch up, silver in the moonshine. They
exploded in one voice, as if the flying mass of wood were an animate
object. Then the sheriff was struck and hurled crashing along
the floor.
CHAPTER 9
At that fall the six men scampered from beneath the table to seize the
downed man. There was no need of their haste. Sheriff Anderson was a
wreck rather than a fighting man. One arm was horribly crumpled
beneath him; his ribs were shattered, there was a great gash where the
rung of the chair had cut into the bone like a knife.
They stood chattering about the fallen man, straightening him out,
feeling his pulse, making sure that he, who would soon hang at the
will of the law, was alive. Outside, voices were rushing toward them,
doors slamming.
Bull Hunter broke through the circle, bent over the limp body, and
drew a big bundle of keys from a pocket. Then, without a word, he went
back to the far end of the room, buckled on his gun belt, and in
silence left the room.
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