the upstairs rooms, and of women's screams as they snatched their possessions to flee.
Kane was raving and cursing, drunk with liquor and fury. He could be heard struggling, his defiance breaking down in a drunken blubber when somebody threw open the front door.
Mrs. Kane came out, carrying a baby and a little bundle of something done up in a white shawl. Her face was strained with fright and suffering, her big hollow eyes were full of terror. She paused a moment, in attitude of fearful questioning. Waco Johnson took her arm kindly, and led her to the road. There she threw one terrified look behind and ran, heading directly for the little restaurant before which Tom Simpson had hitched his team.
A dealer came out, carrying a little satchel. He walked sullenly defiant between the double file of men with guns in their hands who made a passage before the door, bending his unhurried steps toward the bank. Four women followed, their cheap finery stuffed hastily into handbags, ends of apparel showing through the gaping jaws, bundles under their arms. They were frowsy, dishevelled, crying. Nobody inside was gallant enough to give them a hand.
The rafters began to burn through, the roof to fall. Waco Johnson and his men drew back for safety. Frantic in the first realization that his place was burning, Kane rushed out yelling wildly for help.
"Put it out!" be implored, his avid wide mouth dribbling, tears streaming from his red eyes, head over on his shoulder in such a grotesque posture of villainy justly
