Arizona Round-Up — page 123: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ARIZONA ROUNDUP 121 He fell face forward off the crate and then hung there with his feet resting on top of the overturned box. Red gushed froin his mouth and a big crimson stain began spreading on his shirt just below the rope. Three inches higher and the bullet would have cut it in two. The shock of it froze the crowd into immobility until necks began twisting. Then the rifle roared again. Pearson threw up both hands and fell forward into the dirt. And the crowd broke. A swelling, stentorian roar went through it. In back of the Pheasant Lily Owens, dressed in boots, men’s corduroy pants, and wool shirt, ran down the stairs. She leaped astride the wait- ing horse, spurring away. And five of the shotgun guards acted simultaneously. Jake Lindsay and his men, following the rescue of Jed, had boldly returned and were less than one hundred yards away, standing in the doorway of a big tent bar, drinking whiskey, with their hands‘on their guns. They saw the guards running toward them and drew their guns. But before the astonished men realized what was happening the five miners had grabbed the horses and, oblivious to the owners’ yells of indignation, were setting off hard in pursuit of Lily and her father. Two of the saddles carried saddle guns in boots. The men riding those two horses dropped their guns and pulled out the repeating rifles. They began firing at the fleeing figures, riding iard to cut them off. Lily came pcunding up beside her father. They were spurring. Jed’s hat was gone, his long hair flying. “Swing south!” he yelled at her. “They're cutting us off.” “Where's Tex?” “I don't know—there he is! South of town among the trees. Come on!” Tex was waiting as they came spurring by, and the black leaped into stride. Bullets drummed all around them until the magazines were empty and the men back of them with no more ammunition at hand. They disappeared among the trees and drummed south, leav- ing behind a town that for a second time that day had gone mad. Somebody was roaring and shouting about crooked dice in the Pound, Harlan Pearson’s own place. The crowd jammed in comicbooks.com