“I can’t,” came back in muffled tones.

“Then good-bye; I’m off!” he shouted.  That brought her, partially dressed, from the tent.  “Say, do you remember the river road we walked over to-day?  Well, those fellows went in that direction, didn’t they?  Don’t you see?  Aren’t you on?  The washout!  If they don’t know about it the whole bunch is at the bottom of the ravine or in the river by this time!  Mum’s the word!  There’s a chance, darling; the reward said ’dead or alive!’ I’m off!”

She tried to call him back, but it was too late.  With his own revolver in his hand, the half Orlando, half Blake, tore down the rarely travelled river road south.  Behind him Tinkletown raved and wailed over the great calamity, but generally stood impotent in the face of it all.  But few felt inclined to pursue the robbers.  Blake soon had the race to himself.  It was a mile or more to the washout in the road, but the excitement made him keen for the test.  The road ran through the woods and along the high bluff that overlooked the river.  He did not know it, but this same road was a “short cut” to the macadam pike farther south.  By taking this route the robbers gave Boggs City a wide berth.

Blake’s mind was full of the possibilities of disaster to the over-confident fugitives.  The washout was fresh, and he was counting on the chance that they were not aware of its existence.  If they struck it even at half speed the whole party would be hurled a hundred feet down to the edge of the river or into the current itself.  In that event, some, if not all, would be seriously injured.

As he neared the turn in the road, his course pointed out to him by the stars above, he was startled half out of his boots by the sudden appearance of a man, who staggered from the roadside and wobbled painfully away, pleading for mercy.

“Halt, or I’ll shoot!” called Jackie Blake, and the pathetic figure not only halted, but sat down in the middle of the road.

“For the Lord’s sake, don’t shoot!” groaned a hoarse voice.  “I wasn’t in cahoots with them.  They fooled me—­they fooled me.”  It was Anderson Crow, and he would have gone on interminably had not Jackie Blake stopped him short.

“You’re the marshal, eh?  The darned rube—­”

“Yes, I’m him.  Call me anything, only don’t shoot.  Who are you?” groaned Anderson, rising to his knees.  He was holding his revolvers by the muzzles.  “Never mind who I am.  I haven’t time.  Say, you’d better come with me.  Maybe we can head off those villains.  They came this way and—­”

“Show ’em to me,” roared Anderson, recognising a friend.  Rage surged up and drove out the shame in his soul.  “I’ll tackle the hull caboodle, dang ’em!” And he meant it, too.

Blake did not stop to explain, but started on, commanding Mr. Crow to follow.  With rare fore-thought the marshal donned his yellow beard as he panted in the trail of the lithe young actor.  The latter remembered that the odds were heavily against him.  The marshal might prove a valuable aid in case of resistance, provided, of course, that they came upon the robbers in the plight he was hoping for.