“I left my shoes in my saddle pocket,” she said, apologetically.  “I—­I thought it would be safer.”

There was a sudden yell somewhere on Main Street.  It sounded as if it came from uncomfortably close to the Tweezy house.  Then a sixshooter cracked once, twice, and again.  At the third shot Racey was running as tight as he could set foot to the ground.

Encumbered as he was with a double armful of girl and a fairly heavy sackful of papers he yet made good time to the corner of the nearest corral.  The increasing riot in Main Street undoubtedly was a most potent spur.

“Which way’s the hoss?” he gasped when the dark rail of the corral fretted the sky before them.

“You’re heading straight,” she replied, calmly.  “Thirty feet more and you’ll run into him.  Better set me down.”

He did—­literally.  He turned his foot on a tin can and went down ker-flop.  Forced to guard his box of caps with one hand he could not save Molly Dale a smashing fall.

“Ah-ugh!” guggled Molly, squirming on the ground, for she had struck the pit of her stomach on a round rock the size of a football and the wind was knocked out of her.

Racey scrambled to his feet, and knowing that if Molly was able to wriggle and groan she could not be badly hurt, picked up the sack and scouted up Molly’s horse.  He found it without difficulty, and tied the sack with the saddle strings in front of the horn.  He loosed the horse and led it to where Molly still lay on the ground.  The poor girl was sitting up, clutching her stomach and rocking back and forth and fighting for her breath with gasps and crows.

But there was not time to wait till she should regain the full use of her lungs—­not in the face of the shouts and yells in Main Street.  Lord, the whole town was up.  Lights were flashing in every house.  Racey stooped, seized Molly under the armpits, and heaved her bodily into the saddle.

“Hang onto the horn,” he ordered, “and for Gosh sake don’t make so much noise!”

Molly obeyed as best she could.  He mounted behind her, and of course had to fight the horse, which harboured no intention of carrying double if it could help itself.  Racey, however, was a rider, and he jerked Molly’s quirt from where it hung on the horn.  Not more than sixty seconds were wasted before they were travelling toward the lone pine as tight as the horse could jump.

At the pine Racey slipped to the ground and ran to untie his horse.

“Can you hang on all right at a trot if I lead yore hoss?” he queried, sharply, his fingers busy with the knot of the rope.

“I cue-can and gug-guide him, too,” she stuttered, picking up her reins and making a successful effort to sit up straight.  “Lul-look!  At Tut-Tweezy’s huh-house!”

He looked.  There were certainly three lanterns bobbing about in the open behind the house of Luke Tweezy.  He knew too well what those lights meant.  The Marysville citizens were hunting for a hot trail.