His eyes, accustomed to darkness, made out at least five
horses in the now unlighted area before the tavern.
Turning from the window, he unlocked and opened the door into the
hall. Some one was clattering down the narrow staircase. The bolts on
the front door shot back with resounding force, and there came the
hoarse jumble of excited voices as men crowded through the entrance.
Putnam Jones's voice rose above the clamour.
"Keep quiet! Do you want to wake everybody on the place?" he was
saying angrily. "What's up? This is a fine time o' night to be--Good
Lord! What's the matter with him?"
"Telephone for a doctor, Put,--damn' quick! This one's still alive.
The other one is dead as a door nail up at Jim Conley's house. Git ole
Doc James down from Saint Liz. Bring him in here, boys. Where's your
lights? Easy now! Eas-EE!"
Barnes waited to hear no more. His blood seemed to be running ice-cold
as he retreated into the room and began scrambling for his clothes.
The thing he feared had come to pass. Disaster had overtaken her in
that wild, senseless dash up the mountain road. He was cursing half
aloud as he dressed, cursing the fool who drove that machine and who
now was perhaps dying down there in the tap-room.
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