He caught some of the burden that was
staggering Denver into his own arms and floundered through the rear door
into the blessed openness of the night. His left arm carried the crushing
burden of the canvas sacks--in his right hand was the gun--but no form
showed behind him.
But there were voices beginning. The yells of Lewison had struck out
echoes up and down the street. Terry could hear shouts begin inside
houses in answer, and bark out with sudden clearness as a door or a
window was opened.
They reached the horses, dumped the precious burdens into the saddlebags,
and mounted.
"Which way?" gasped Denver.
A light flickered in the bank; half a dozen men spilled out of the back
door, cursing and shouting.
"Walk your horse," said Terry. "Walk it--you fool!"
Denver had let his horse break into a trot. He drew it back to a walk at
this hushed command.
"They won't see us unless we start at a hard gallop," continued Terry.
"They won't watch for slowly moving objects now. Besides, it'll be ten
minutes before the sheriff has a posse organized. And that's the only
thing we have to fear.
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