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 saddle where two men were lifting Tom Simpson from the sidewalk in front of the hardware store.

But the men in the saloon would not come out, although somebody was so unwise as to take a blind shot at Waco through the door. It almost grazed him, and gave him clinching evidence, if any had been wanting in his mind, that Tom Simpson's murderers were hiding there. Waco flung his long leg over the saddle and led his horse to the hitching-rack across the street; he called three men to him and gave an order in quick, firm words. He did not look toward the Railroad Restaurant, into which they were carrying Tom Simpson; if he had any thought of Eudora Ellison it was that she was safe at home with her mother, and spared the heartbreak of that melancholy scene.

Two men ran across the tracks to a freight car on the siding, opened the journal boxes and pulled out handfuls of oil-dripping packing. They came back with this, another running over from the livery stable with wire that had been cut from baled hay.

Some of the men who had pursued such of the mob as had been able to run after that devastating volley, reported that the survivors had run into the back door of the hotel. Waco stormed around there, to find that entrance barred. He gave it a kick and jumped aside, getting the immediate response that he expected. They must have pegged a dozen shots through the thin pine door.

Whether through economy, or through a modest desire to shield the doings from people on the outside, the roadside wall of the hotel dining-room-dance-hall was a solid blank. From that quarter Waco Johnson's force