Just as the mob surged out of the Occidental, cursing and struggling, the two sprang forward and dashed into the narrow space between the livery-stable and the hotel.  Moffat chanced to be in the passage-way, and pausing to ask no questions, Mason promptly landed that gentleman on the back of his head in a pile of discarded tin cans, and kicked viciously at a yellow dog which ventured to snap at them as they swept past.  Behind arose a volley of curses, the thud of feet, an occasional voice roaring out orders, and a sharp spat of revolver shots.  One ball plugged into the siding of the hotel, and a second threw a spit of sand into their lowered faces, but neither man glanced back.  They were running for their lives now, racing for a fair chance to turn at bay and fight, their sole hope the steep, rugged hill in their front.  Hampton began to understand the purpose of his companion, the quick, unerring instinct which had led him to select the one suitable spot where the successful waging of battle against such odds was possible—­the deserted dump of the old Shasta mine.

With every nerve strained to the uttermost, the two men raced side by side down the steep slope, ploughed through the tangled underbrush, and toiled up the sharp ascent beyond.  Already their pursuers were crowding the more open spaces below, incited by that fierce craze for swift vengeance which at times sweeps even the law-abiding off their feet.  Little better than brutes they came howling on, caring only in this moment to strike and slay.  The whole affair had been like a flash of fire, neither pursuers nor pursued realizing the half of the story in those first rapid seconds of breathless action.  But back yonder lay a dead man, and every instinct of the border demanded a victim in return.

At the summit of the ore dump the two men flung themselves panting down, for the first time able now to realize what it all meant.  They could perceive the figures of their pursuers among the shadows of the bushes below, but these were not venturing out into the open—­the first mad, heedless rush had evidently ended.  There were some cool heads among the mob leaders, and it was highly probable that negotiations would be tried before that crowd hurled itself against two desperate men, armed and entrenched.  Both fugitives realized this, and lay there coolly watchful, their breath growing more regular, their eyes softening.

“Whut is all this fuss about, anyhow?” questioned the marshal, evidently somewhat aggrieved.  “I wus just eatin’ dinner when a feller stuck his head in an’ yelled ye’d killed somebody over at the Occidental.”

Hampton turned his face gravely toward him.  “Buck, I don’t know whether you’ll believe me or not, but I guess you never heard me tell a lie, or knew of my trying to dodge out of a bad scrape.  Besides, I have n’t anything to gain now, for I reckon you ’re planning to stay with me, guilty or not guilty, but I did not kill that fellow.  I don’t exactly see how I can prove it, the way it all happened, but I give you my word as a man, I did not kill him.”