business or pleasure, something suppressed and alert about them which told Texas at once that they were looking for him.
At the angle that he was looking through the door Uncle Boley could not see them. He started when Texas drew his feet back and sat up stiffly, seeming to grow several inches as his muscles set to meet the emergency of life or death which he knew he should soon be called upon to face. He believed the gang that had been sent out to hunt him had not seen him yet. He got up and stood aside a little from the open door.
"What's the matter?" Uncle Boley inquired, leaning to see.
Texas motioned silently toward the street, his eyes on Ed McCoy's gun with a flame in them such as burns from a man's soul when he rises to the sublimest heights of courage. He felt that his hour had come, but he was ready.
"It's the mayor's gang—they're after you!" the old man said.
Texas reached out for the revolver. Uncle Boley strapped the belt round the waist of his new-found friend, his hands trembling in the strain of the situation.
"Go out the back door—I'll hold 'em here till you're gone!" he said.
"You mean for me to run, sir?"
